


Of Sand and Snow

by lj_todd



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Age Difference, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, F/M, Forced Marriage, Hurt/Comfort, Marriage, Pregnancy, Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-30
Updated: 2021-02-01
Packaged: 2021-02-24 22:26:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Underage
Chapters: 11
Words: 31,714
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22025446
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lj_todd/pseuds/lj_todd
Summary: This was not how it was supposed to be.But one, stupid mistake, has changed everything.Neither Lyanna nor Oberyn are happy with the demands of their families. Neither wish to be married, most certainly not to each other, but they’ve little choice in the matter. They are expected to do as they are told. To marry and be husband and wife. Yet how can they when they when they can barely be civil with one another?Dorne has seen its share of conflict, but nothing could have prepared the nation for the clash of wolf and viper this union will bring about.
Relationships: Oberyn Martell/Lyanna Stark
Comments: 171
Kudos: 380





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I originally posted this work several years ago now but, given I was unsatisfied with the original, took it down to do a major re-write that involved a great many changes.
> 
> A change I feel must be pointed out is that I decided to go with book ages, so that means, for the better part of this story, Lyanna will be between the ages of 14-16 and Oberyn approximately 10yrs her senior hence why I've tagged it as "Underage".
> 
> Additional tags will be added as the story goes on because there will be tags I think of later that I haven't yet thought of.

Lyanna Stark, only daughter of Lord Rickard Stark, Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North, sat, alone, before the roaring fireplace of the chambers granted to her family during their stay in Harrenhall and, despite her calm appearance, was fighting down the urge to scream. Or throw something. It was a near equal urge.

Thus far the Tourney of Harrenhal had been nothing but disastrous.

Drawing a deep breath, hands clenching and unclenching in the fabric of her skirt, she fought to push away the words of her father but they just continued to echo through her mind.

 _"I don't care if nothing happened, Lyanna! A dozen men, noble men,_ saw _the two of you together. They saw him_ kiss _you! By the Gods Old and New, girl, his reputation is known throughout all of Westeros! Now they'll think you're just as sullied as all the other women he's bedded! Gods be damned, Lya, what were you thinking?!"_

Nothing she had said, or rather had tried to say, unable able to talk over her father’s roaring, had made a difference.

Her father had been furious.

She had never seen him in such a temper.

And her brothers had not been much calmer.

Brandon had been just as angry as their father, making demands of her right along side their father. 

Ned, gentle and quiet Ned, had at least been more reasonable. He had not yelled, though she could still see the upset in his pale grey eyes, and had merely asked if she truly though so little of Robert, her betrothed, that she would throw away her future with his best friend so carelessly.

She had been spared answering her brother’s ridiculous question by Rickard’s declaration that the problem would be solved before the end of the tourney.

That had been hours ago now and Lyanna, the self-proclaimed She-Wolf of Winterfell, was still so very furious at her family’s reaction to something that, to her, had meant nothing at all. 

Because nothing had happened.

Nothing but a kiss.

One stupid, meaningless, gods be damned, kiss.

But those who had witnessed the kiss had not seen the innocence of it. The chasteness.

All they had seen was a man with a well known reputation and a highborn girl known to be betrothed to the young Lord of Storm’s End share a kiss that, in their twisted little minds, immediately meant so much more.

She knew by now that word would have spread so much further than her family, than those who had witnessed and chosen to whisper, to gossip, and that, certainly, her betrothed would surely have heard of it by now. And that meant…

A loud roar, words undeterminable through the door, caused her to flinch.

Robert Baratheon was not, in a rage or otherwise, a quiet man.

And it seemed he had come to _talk_.

She heard Ned, who’d been left by their father and brother to keep an eye on her, shout Robert’s name, knew he was likely attempting to calm his friend, to stop him from doing something stupid, and she quickly stood.

Turning to face the door, Lyanna let one of her hands fold behind her back, fingers curling tightly around the hilt of the dagger she had carried since she turned ten. A nameday gift from her grandfather. The Wandering Wolf had made it clear that a true daughter of House Stark was always able to protect herself. No matter what her father might say. And in that moment she was glad for the blade.

She knew Robert seemed a good man but she also knew he had a temper. She had seen him lash out like a wounded stag when angered. She had seen the damage he could do when riled. And though she wanted to believe him to be above striking a woman, no matter how angry he was, she would be prepared all the same. She was a she-wolf, like her mother before her, like all Stark women before her, and she would not allow him to touch her in anger.

When the door suddenly slammed open she couldn’t help but jump as the wood struck stone, surprised that the force had not ripped the door from its hinges, and she drew a quick breath as Robert stalked into the room, Ned right at his heels, her brother attempting to grab hold of Robert. She did not know if Ned meant to stop Robert or simply hold him at the door, nor did she care, she kept a careful watch on Robert’s face, on the fury she saw there and, drawing a deep breath, trying to steady herself, she was reminded why the Baratheon words were _Ours is the Fury_.

“Why?!” Robert’s bellow echoed through the room but Lyanna did not flinch. She held her ground. A wolf did not run from a stag. “Why, Lyanna, why?! _Why_ would you do this me? _To us?!_ ”

Lyanna huffed, chin tilting upwards almost defiantly, refusing to be seen as a frightened, cowering little girl.

“ _I_ ,” she said, surprised by how calm, how even, she was able to speak for, despite all her outward appearance of being calm, inside she was trembling. “Have done _nothing_.”

“Nothing?!”

Robert dared a step forward, easily shaking Ned off, ignoring the way his friend told him to stay calm.

“You call being caught with that…that _snake_ …nothing?!”

“ _Yes!_ ” She gave Robert a withered glare. “I call it nothing because _nothing happened!_ ”

“You kissed him!”

Lyanna made a low sound, like the warning growl of a wolf, and shook her head.

“One kiss,” she snapped. “Which is _nothing_ compared to the number of tavern maids and serving wenches you’ve fucked!”

Robert jerked back a step, surprise dancing clear as day on his face, though from her knowledge of his exploits or her crass language, language her father would happily reprimand her for, but either way it almost made her laugh. Did he truly think she was so naïve that she would not know? That she would not hear the whispers or the rumors? She had once told Ned that Robert did not truly know her and it seemed she was right.

”I’ve said nothing,” she pressed on, shaking her head, glaring daggers at Robert. “Even when I knew you bedded any woman who would spread her legs for you and yet when I share something as meaningless as a kiss with someone you, and everyone else it seems, are ready to start a gods be damned riot!”

Lyanna saw Ned flinch, her words hitting home for her brother as well, but, in the case of betrothed, her words seemed to only fuel his anger once more and he took another bold step forward, putting him much too close for her comfort.

“Meaningless?” Robert’s hands clenched into fists at his sides and in response she gripped her dagger tighter. “Perhaps if it had been some stable boy or that little crannogman you’ve become so bloody fond of then perhaps it would have been meaningless, but it _wasn’t_!”

Lyanna opened her mouth, ready to fire back, but before she could a deep, familiar voice sounded from the doorway.

“No, Lord Robert, it was not.”

Everyone turned, watching as Rickard entered the room, closely followed by Brandon, who still looked like a brewing storm.

Rickard’s gaze, sharp and grey and keen as a wolf’s, went from Robert’s face to Lyanna’s as he walked nearer, Brandon choosing, or perhaps ordered, to remain by the doorway.

Robert stepped back several paces as the Lord of Winterfell drew nearer, putting more respectable space between him and Lyanna. Rickard took the opening and placed himself between his daughter and her betrothed.

Lyanna all but held her breath as her father looked at her for a long, tense moment, before his gaze swung back to Robert.

“My sincerest apologies, Lord Robert,” Rickard spoke calmly, though Lyanna saw the tension in his face, in the stiff way he held himself. “But I wish to speak with my daughter.” His grey gaze turned to Lyanna again. “Alone.”

Robert made a low sound, looking ready to argue, but Ned bumped him, subtly, and shook his head at his friend. Robert hesitated a moment but, in the end, drew a deep breath, giving Lyanna a funny look, before nodding his agreement.

“I understand, Lord Rickard.”

Lyanna watched as Robert walked out, Ned close behind him, while Brandon lingered by the door until Rickard gave him a look. As her elder brother stepped out he shot her a look, one that clearly said he would not want to be in her place right now. She drew a low breath, hand slowly falling away from her dagger, and turned her gaze to her father. He did not look to be in any better a mood now than he had hours ago.

“Father,” she started, hoping to at least be given the chance to explain herself this time. “Please, I can…”

“You do not speak now, Lyanna.” Rickard’s gaze narrowed and Lyanna swallowed around the sudden lump in her throat. It was not often she heard that tone, full of anger and disappointment, and to hear it now seemed to steal her voice for a moment. “Now you will _listen_.”

She didn’t make a sound as she watched him turn, walking slowly to stand by the fireplace, looking down at the dancing flames before looking again to her.

“I have decided how to best…handle…the situation I find you in.”

Lyanna ground her teeth and looked down, muttering about him making it sound like this was all her fault, not thinking he would hear her but that proved to be wishful thinking as Rickard suddenly whirled around, glaring harshly at her.

“Do you think this is _funny_ , Lyanna? _Do you?!_ ”

She quickly shook her head, knowing that trying to explain what had truly happened would be pointless now. Her father was beyond listening to anything she had to say at this point. Rickard regarded her for a moment, weighing her silence, before he sighed and scrubbed a hand over his face.

“As I said, I have decided on a solution for mess you have gotten yourself in.”

Lyanna frowned.

“And that solution is?”

“I’ve sent a raven, with a letter explaining the situation and my terms. I suspect by weeks end I will have a response.”

Lyanna frowned, not understanding.

Why would her father need to send a letter anywhere? And why would he need to wait for a response? Robert was here, had just stormed in and out like a rampaging bull, and surely if he was so upset with things and needed to change something about his betrothal to her then why would he not just speak to Rickard face to face?

“I don’t understand,” she admitted, still frowning. “Why would…Why would you need to send a raven? Robert is here. You could speak with him and sort out whatever needs to be decided.”

“My terms are not for Lord Robert.” Rickard sighed and crossed back to her, surprising her by reaching around her back, drawing her dagger from its sheath and examining it before meeting her gaze again. “My terms, and the letter containing them, were sent to Sunspear. For Prince Doran Martell to answer.”

Lyanna felt her heart leap into her throat.

“Father…”

“I suspect,” he continued as though she had not just spoken, turning her dagger over and over between his hands. “That within the month you will be married and this will all be settled.”

Lyanna let out a low sound and shook her head.

“You…” She swallowed thickly, looking at her father pleadingly. “You mean to…” She laughed shakily and shook her head. “You mean to convince Prince Doran to have his brother marry me to save you any shame.”

“Lyanna,” Rickard started but Lyanna shook her head, half tempted to snatch her dagger back from him but worried she would cut him or herself if she tried with her hands shaking so badly.

“I’m already betrothed,” she reminded hotly, perhaps a little too hotly because Rickard’s gaze narrowed sharply. “To Robert.”

“You _were_ betrothed to Lord Robert.”

Everything seemed to grow cold as Lyanna stared, wide eyed, at her father.

“But…he…you…”

“I will be informing Lord Robert of this the moment I leave this room,” Rickard explained.

Lyanna let out a pained sound.

She had never wanted to marry Robert, truer words could not be spoken, but nor did she want to be passed off to another man simply because of something as stupidly innocent as a kiss.

“But _nothing_ happened,” she tried to reason again, praying to the gods, Old and New, that her father would just listen to her, to believe her.

Rickard sighed softly, reaching up to cup her cheek, giving a sad smile.

“And I believe that,” he admitted softly, voice barely above a whisper, and Lyanna felt her eyes burn with unshed tears. “You are my little pup, Lyanna, and I believe you when you say nothing happened beyond that kiss but, and you must try to understand this, my hands are tied in this. Too many people saw and, by now, far too many people know and that number is only growing. There is no other choice.”

Lyanna shook her head, feeling a tear roll silently down her cheek, not surprised when her father wiped it away. He never had been able to stand the sight of her tears.

“I am sorry, Lyanna,” her father said softly. “I am. But you must understand that this is how things will be.”

She did not understand.

And she did not want to understand.

She felt as though she was taking blame for something that, had it been one of her brothers, would have been dismissed as boys being boys.

Rickard looked down at her dagger, turning it again in his hand, thumb rubbing carefully over the edge of the blade.

“Your grandfather gave you this, didn’t he?”

She nodded and a slight smile, a touch sad, graced Rickard’s face.

“To protect yourself, I trust?”

Lyanna nodded and Rickard sighed, handing the dagger back to her.

“You will likely need it in Dorne.” He cupped her cheek again. “And please, Lyanna, please do try to understand I do not do this to punish you. And always remember your duty as a Stark.”

He pressed a quick kiss to her forehead as more tears spilled down her face before he turned and walked from the room, the door closing quietly behind him.

The feeling that washed over her in the empty silence was one of dread.


	2. Chapter 2

A wineglass crashed into the wall but Elia Martell, Princess of Dorne and wife of a Targaryen Prince, did nothing more than watch with an expression of mild annoyance.

“Honestly,” she said with a soft sigh, watching as her baby brother paced like an angry, caged animal, hands clenching and unclenching at his sides. “You are acting like a petulant child.”

Oberyn snarled as he moved, looking more like a cat than the feared viper he was.

“He _cannot_ make me do this!”

Elia did nothing but sigh in the presence of her brother’s fury.

“According to this,” she waved the letter that had arrived that morning from Sunspear through the air, making Oberyn snarl again. “He _can_.”

“I did _nothing_!” Oberyn whirled, his gaze darting about, no doubt looking for something else to throw. “Nothing more than kiss that…that _child_! Doran writes as though I had been caught ravaging her!”

Elia sighed again.

“It is a scandal, brother mine. A scandal born of an innocent act, true enough, but a scandal all the same.” 

The Princess rose from her chair and crossed the room, stopping Oberyn’s pacing by taking his hands in hers. 

“Tell me, hmm, what harm is there in marrying her? She’s of a noble family, one of the most respected Houses in all of Westeros. It will create an alliance between Dorne and the North that has never before existed.”

Oberyn gave her a pinched look.

“There is this funny thing you do,” he said, voice filled with his anger, though it was not direct at her. Not truly. “You open your mouth and mother comes out.”

He pulled away from her and crossed the room, leaving her to watch him.

“And is mother wrong?”

“ _Yes!_ ” Oberyn whirled, dark eyes blazing as he glared. “She is four and ten! _Four and ten_ , Elia! My Obara is nearly of an age with her! I’ve no desire to take a _child_ little older than my own daughter as a wife! Fucking Seven, I’ve no desire to take a wife _at all_!”

Elia scowled, looking at him as she did her Rhaenys whenever her daughter misbehaved.

“Then perhaps,” she snapped as the door to her chamber opened and one of her ladies-in-waiting, Ashara Dayne, entered, though the girl hesitated in the doorway, clearly uncertain is she should stay or not. “You should have thought of all of that _before_ you risked her reputation!”

Oberyn glared but Elia glared right back.

“You _knew_ who she was, Oberyn.” Elia shook her head. “You knew that, just as you knew she was promised, and yet you still had to play your game, as you always do. You should know by now that your actions have far reaching consequences, Oberyn. And this time the Seven are surely laughing because this is a consequence you can’t escape.”

Oberyn made a low sound and looked away from his sister, hands clenching so tightly at his sides that his knuckles were white.

Elia let out a long sigh and gestured for Ashara to leave them, waiting until the door had closed behind her friend before she spoke again.

“We all must make sacrifices, brother mine,” she said calmly, looking at Oberyn softly. “I have made mine. Now, Oberyn, now it is time for you to make yours.”

Oberyn grunted.

“And what _sacrifice_ did Doran make?”

Elia frowned and stared at her brother for a moment before she sighed, shaking her head, reaching out and taking his hand again.

“Doran makes it every day.” She reached up to cup his cheek. “Do you think it is easy? Being the Prince of Dorne? Ruling and playing politics? It is a life I would not have wished on our brother. It weighs on him, Oberyn. Heavily. Just as it did on Mother before him.”

“Yet he is not the one having a child forced upon him for a wife,” Oberyn growled, jerking away from her, refusing to hear her reasoning. No matter that she was right. “How is this my _sacrifice_ to bear when I did _nothing wrong_?!”

“It is yours to bear because all will whisper,” Elia reminded, hating that she had to take such a role with her brother. Hating that she had to side with Doran against Oberyn. She had never taken pleasure in doing so before and doing so now left a sour taste in her mouth but it had to be done. “They will speculate that you did more than you say. More than she says. It is yours to bear because Doran, your brother, your _Prince_ , tells you it is.”

Oberyn made a low, angry sound and shook his head.

“If she needs to be married off to protect her reputation then let it be to that drunken oaf she’s betrothed to!”

Elia rolled her eyes and snatched up Doran’s letter from the table.

“ _Lord Rickard has, according to his letter, broken the betrothal between his daughter and Lord Robert Baratheon for fear of repercussion towards her from the young Lord,_ ” she read aloud, even as Oberyn snarled in protest of it. “ _And I find myself agreeing with him. It would not do well for you, or the status of our House, for the girl to marry the Storm Lord, or any Lord, have a child within a year only to have nobles across the whole of Westeros whisper that it is a Martell bastard and not trueborn. Therefore, brother, you will do what is demanded, both by Lord Stark and by duty, and marry Lady Lyanna Stark. The sooner the better._ ”

“This,” Oberyn snarled, glaring at the letter as though he could somehow reach through it and strangle their brother. “All of it, is utter horse shite. I’ll not go through with this madness!”

Elia raised a delicate eyebrow, glancing against at the letter and, once more, read aloud.

“ _You_ will _do this, brother, after Lord Whent’s tourney has ended. You_ will _do this or I_ will _write Lord Stark and advise him to take whatever action_ he _deems fit to resolve this matter._ ”

The Princess’ dark eyes lifted and she fixed her brother with a narrow and cold look.

“Now, tell me, what do you think Lord Rickard will do should you refuse to marry his daughter?”

Oberyn scoffed.

“He’ll never challenge me to combat,” he was almost laughing at the mere idea. “He’s not that stupid.”

“No,” Elia agreed though she rolled her eyes as she spoke. “But he does not need to face you himself, you idiot. Have you forgotten he has two sons, the eldest of whom happens to be brash and loves his sister as deeply as you love me?”

Elia crossed her arms over her chest, watching as Oberyn stilled, his dark gaze swinging to her.

“Now,” she continued, confident she had his full attention now. “If this situation were reversed, if Brandon or Eddard Stark were in your place and I were in Lady Lyanna’s, tell me, brother, what would you do?”

Oberyn drew a long, deep breath, knowing his sister had him.

There was no way he could slip free of her logic. He could, and should, fight Doran’s logic, could fight it tooth and nail, claw and struggle with every breath in his body. But Elia knew how to work him. She knew how to make him do as she wanted. She always had.

Sighing heavily, he rubbed a hand over his face.

“I’d gut the bastard,” he answered her question, feeling like he’d just lost a battle not an argument. “As well you know.”

“Exactly.” Elia set the letter aside. “And the only reason Brandon Stark has not come howling for you blood is because his father has managed to convince Doran that this marriage will be payment enough.”

She crossed to where her brother stood, reaching up to cup his face in her hands, meeting his gaze head on.

“Now, tell me, baby brother, will you do what has been asked of you? Will you marry this girl and spare our family bloodshed, suffering and even more whispers? Or will I be forced to watch you duel a man over something as foolish as your own pride and stupidity?”

Oberyn stared at her for along moment, not weighing his options, it was clear he had only two, three if he simply ran but he was no coward to flee from hardship, merely letting her think he was doing so. He knew, had known since Doran’s letter had arrived, the choice had already been made. He sighed, low and long, reaching up and covering one of his sister’s hands.

“There is no getting out of this is there?”

Elia smiled almost sadly.

She felt for her brother. He was being force to marry someone. Someone he barely knew and did not love or want. It was hardly fair but she had not been wrong about sacrifices being necessary. Or that his marriage to the Stark girl would create an important union between Dorne and the North. It still hurt to see his choice stripped away though.

“You knew there was no chance of that when you first read Doran’s letter.”

Oberyn said nothing for a moment, merely looked at her, before he slowly stepped away. Turning to one of the tables, he grabbed the pitcher of wine, facing her again, lifting said pitcher in a mock toast of sorts.

“Well, sister dearest,” he said, slapping a smile of false cheer on his face which only served to make her frown in disappointment at him. “Here’s to my pending nuptials. May it be…” He huffed a humorless laugh. “Well, it won’t be happy, so may it be filled with enough entertainment that is gives Doran headaches for years to come and make him regret to ever agreeing to it in the first place.”

Elia rolled her eyes as Oberyn took a drink straight from the pitcher while turning towards the door.

“Oh, Oberyn,” she sighed as he sauntered from the room, the door banging loudly shut behind him.

She knew him well enough to know that he would go get drunk, find a pretty girl or boy, or both, to lose himself in for the night and, tomorrow, he would carry on acting a petulant child who had been caught with his hand in the cookie jar. It was simply his way.

Shaking her head, Elia returned to her chair, once more picking up Doran’s letter, reading through it again before tossing it back down.

“I certainly hope you know what you are doing, Doran,” she muttered as she looked towards the window, watching the sunlight slowly fade. “Because this will not be an easy thing. On our brother or Lady Lyanna.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _So, it was brought to my attention this morning that a user over on Wattpad has, at some point before I took the original version of this story down to rewrite, copied and translated, without my permission, the story into Portuguese and is claiming it as their own. And my story is not the only one they've done this with. I've reached out to the other authors this was done to, as well as to the support people on Wattpad, though I do not expect any real resolution to the problem._
> 
> _To further my stance and prove I am the original creator of this fic, I hunted back through my blog to find a link to a review written back in 2014, shortly after I started the story. A review that can be read **[HERE](https://ladygeekgirl.wordpress.com/2014/05/16/fanfiction-fridays-of-sand-and-snow-by-lj_todd/)**_
> 
> _I felt it was important I make note of this because this isn't the first time this sort of thing has happened and, as always, my knee-jerk reaction was to delete all my works and never post again. But, once my anger had waned and saner heads prevailed, I decided it didn't matter. The people who know me, who have followed me for years, in both this fandom and others, know my work and know my integrity and, honestly, that's what matters to me. Yes, there will be some new readers who will doubt, who will question, but that's okay too._
> 
> _Everyone must make up their own minds in regards to situations like this and my mind says I will keep writing, I will keep posting, because every time I see a message or a comment telling me how much someone enjoyed my story, no matter which story it was, I feel this spark of joy, this sense of accomplishment, that I brought even a small bit of pleasure to a person's day._
> 
> _I love my readers perhaps more than I can put into words and I appreciate each and every one of you! ❤ ❤ ❤_

Lyanna sat in her tent, glaring daggers at the handmaiden, Triss, a woman of an age with her late mother, who had been sent by her father to _help_ her during the remainder of their time at Harrenhal.

The young she-wolf was no fool.

The handmaiden’s job wasn’t to help her but to watch her. To ensure she did nothing else that would shame her father or their House. To ensure she behaved.

Well, the woman, some southerner who no doubt was in service to House Whent but was willing to aid a visiting Lord with his troublesome daughter, was about to learn that Lyanna Stark had well earned her reputation as a wild little thing with more wolf blood than not.

“I’m not wearing that,” Lyanna snapped, arms folded over her chest, as Triss lifted a fine gown from her travel chest.

Triss stilled, looking from the gown to Lyanna, still dressed in her night clothes, hair a tangled mess from all her tossing and turning the night before.

“M’lady?” Triss frowned. “It’s a fine choice and I’m sure your father…”

“And I’m still not wearing it.”

Triss regarded her for a moment, a pinched look on her face, no doubt questioning her choice in accepting her current position, before slowly setting the gown aside and picking up another. Only to be met with the same response. The next three gowns were met with the same response and, judging from the look on Triss’ face, the woman was beyond frustrated with her.

“Lya!” Benjen’s voice, impatient and slightly whiny, came from beyond the tent walls. “Lya, what’s taking you so long?”

“I’m not going.” Lyanna shot back, smirking at the look Triss shot her. “I have nothing to wear.”

She heard Benjen put-upon sigh and then the tent flap was pushed open, causing Triss to squawk, trying to shield Lyanna from view as best she could, as, surprisingly, Brandon stepped in. He frowned at the sight of her, ignoring Benjen’s demands that he make her hurry up already.

“You’re being childish,” he pointed out needlessly and Lyanna just barely resisted the urge to stick her tongue out at him.

“I’m not.” Lyanna waved a hand towards the travel chest, to the dismissed gowns, ignoring the way Triss huffed. “I’ve nothing to wear.”

Brandon arched a brow.

“You’re being…”

“Call me childish or anything to the like and I’ll go parade around the tourney grounds naked.”

Triss squawked in protest and Brandon’s brow merely arched a little higher as Lyanna’s threat. He did not doubt she would do it, he knew his baby sister too well, but she was not the only one capable to playing this game.

“I’m sure your betrothed would be thrilled by such bold actions,” he replied dryly, watching as Lyanna’s cheeks turned a dusty red. Not from embarrassment but from rage.

“Which one?” She spat back. “Father keeps changing his mind so quickly I’m having trouble remembering if it’s Robert or Oberyn or, who knows, by now it’s probably someone else altogether!”

“Lyanna.”

Brandon’s tone was warning, much like their father’s would have been, but Lyanna sprang to her feet.

“I am not some toy to be passed about by bickering men trying to pacify one another!”

Brandon frowned, folding his arms over his chest, watching as Lyanna practically vibrated before him. He understood her anger, he did, but in some things they had no choice but to simply accept the hand the gods had dealt them and carry on. No matter how much they might wish to do otherwise.

“Do you remember what Mother always told us, Lyanna?”

The question was enough to give her pause.

“She told us many things,” she muttered.

“She did. But do you remember what she told us about the duty of a child of House Stark?”

Lyanna bit her lip and looked away.

Her mother had always said the duty of a child of House Stark was to House Stark. To the North. To know that duty sometimes meant sacrifice. That no matter how wild one was, no matter how proud or how strong, in the end all that mattered was duty to their House. To their family. 

Because, as Lyarra had always said, a lone wolf died but the pack survived.

“It is no easy thing,” Brandon said, reaching out and gripping Lyanna’s shoulder in that brotherly way of his. “Being told your duty and expected to rise to it. I know this, little sister, better perhaps than anyone, but you do yourself no good by continuing to try to fight what cannot be changed.”

Lyanna said nothing. Merely looked down at her feet. Feeling so small in front of her brother.

“Oh, Lya,” Brandon murmured, wrapping his arms around her, hugging her tightly. An embrace she immediately returned. “This is not the end of the world.”

“Then why does it feel that way?”

Brandon chuckled and kissed her temple.

“Because it’s change and change is always terrifying.” He gave her a squeeze. “But you are Lyanna of House Stark and you are, by far, the bravest person I have ever had the misfortune of angering.”

Lyanna chuckled and Brandon grinned against her hair.

“You are allowed to be angry,” he continued. “You are allowed to hate everything that’s going on. But, in the end, little sister, I know you will do as we Starks have done for generations.”

“A Stark always does their duty,” she whispered and Brandon gave a nod, pressing another kiss to her temple.

“We do,” he agreed, slowly stepping back, giving her a small smile. “But, for now, our duties are much simpler. We are expected at the lists in…well, now actually.”

Lyanna’s nose wrinkled.

“I have nothing to…”

She stopped talking when Benjen suddenly stepped through the tent flaps, holding a stack of clothes. Tunics and trousers from the look of it.

“Please,” Benjen whined, holding out the clothes, his own no doubt, earning a soft chuckle from Brandon. “Just get dressed so we can _go_ already.”

Lyanna rolled her eyes, ignoring as Triss tutted about how proper ladies should wear gowns, before reaching out and taking a matching tunic and trousers from her little brother.

“Out, both of you,” she said, waving her hand towards the tent flap even as Brandon gave Benjen a gentle nudge in that direction. “I’ll be ready shortly.”

By the time she was dressed, much to the grumblings of her minder, she quickly joined Brandon and Benjen in the short walk to the lists, not surprised when Brandon parted from them to join their father in the high stands. She and Benjen, shadowed by Triss, went to join Ned in the lower stands.

She saw the way Ned, and the young Howland Reed, eyed the way she was dressed, clearly surprised and questioning her clothes, but ignored them both as she took the seat next to Ned.

She slouched, unable to pretend to even be remotely interested in the jousting or the knights participating in this final day of festivities.

She grunted softly when Benjen bumped her, chattering excitedly about some Riverland knight getting ready to ride against a knight from the Westerlands, and was very much aware of the way Ned kept glancing at her.

“Sit up, Lya,” Ned whispered to her as the knights clashed together before them, the roar of the crowd ringing through the air as loudly as the splintering wood. “Father will…”

“Father can go swallow a goat turn for all I care,” Lyanna snarked, which caused Howland to give her a startled look while Ned groaned softly. Thankfully Benjen was too enraptured by the joust to pay any sort of attention to his siblings.

Ned sighed, clearly knowing she did not truly mean her words, knew that she was angry, and though he tried to appear reprimanding brother in case any of those sitting around them happened to be paying a little too much attention to the latest source of gossip. He couldn’t help but admire his sister’s restraint. Just last night her language had been colourful enough to make an Ironborn sailor blush.

“I know you’re upset about Father breaking your betrothal to Robert,” he started, looking at his sister gently. “But…”

“What I’m _upset_ about, _Eddard_ ,” she cut in coldly, glaring at him as a knight rode by. “Is that I’m, still, being forced into a marriage I do not want. A marriage to a man whose reputation is so well know that most Lords, Northern or Southern, would _never_ consider betrothing a daughter to him.”

“Lya,” Ned started, pretending not to see the way Benjen looked at him, gaze all but pleading with him to leave things alone, but Lyanna interrupted him once again.

“Did you know he has three daughters already?”

She said it with no malice or upset. Just a genuine curiosity. She refused to call those girls bastards as others would because, honestly, legitimate or not, they were still Oberyn’s daughters. She saw the surprise dance across Ned’s face and she almost laughed as he sputtered, quietly demanding to know how in the world she could possibly know that.

“His oldest is nine,” she admitted. “He told me that himself, the same day we ki…”

“Shh,” Ned unexpectedly hissed as the Crown Prince rode passed them, no doubt not wanting to see his sister further tarnished in front of the man who, soon enough, could be considered he brother-by-law. 

Lyanna rolled her eyes, not bothering to smile as the dark armoured Rhaegar Targaryen slowed his horse, his head turning and, from beneath his helm, looked at her. She bristled, teeth suddenly on edge, and she felt Ned tense, saw the questioning expression on Howland’s face, but, in the beat of a heart, the Targaryen Prince rode on.

“That was strange,” the quiet Howland murmured, watching Rhaegar take position against Ser Barristan Selmy, a knight of King Aerys’ Kingsguard.

Lyanna sighed and merely slouched further, caring nothing for the match for she knew, just like everyone else, that Ser Barristan would not risk harming Rhaegar so, truthfully, the match was hardly fair. She turned her head and found her gaze searching the royal stand for the woman whom she would call sister-by-law.

Princess Elia Martell, dressed in a fine dress of golden-red silk that brought out the warmth in her olive skin, looked exactly like the royal she was. Her dark hair was woven up into some Southron style that Lyanna could not begin to fathom and her dark gaze was fixed on Rhaegar, on her husband, and a soft smile spread across her face. Perched upon her lap was her daughter, Princess Rhaenys, who was, it seemed, more interested in playing with her uncle’s fingers than watching her father joust.

Oberyn, seated next to Elia, was smiling happily at his niece, about as interested in the joust as the toddler.

Lyanna could not help but smile a bit at the sight, wondering if he was like that with his own daughters, imagining he was given how warmly and lovingly he had spoken of the girls waiting for him back in Dorne.

When Oberyn’s head suddenly lifted, as though sensing he was being watched, and his dark gaze locked with hers and Lyanna felt her heart pound powerfully against her ribs and, cheeks heating, she quickly looked away.

She focused on the match even though she had no interest in it at all, trying to distract herself, and she almost succeeded when she felt, more than saw, Ned look at her and then down the stands. She felt him stiffen and, when he started to move, body beginning to rise from his seat, no doubt thinking Oberyn had done something to upset her, she quickly, and sharply, dug her elbow into her brother’s ribs. He grunted and stilled, looking at her with a frown.

“Leave it,” she hissed as she glanced at his face, hearing the sound of a lance breaking, Benjen cheering excitedly, looking back quickly to the match, watching as Ser Barristan’s squire quickly fetched him a fresh lance. “Just…leave it.”

“Did he…”

“Even if he did it does not matter.” She watched as the two riders tilted, watched as Ser Barristan held nothing back, surprised at his determination to win. Perhaps there was a knight who did not fear the King’s wrath after all. “Just…Sit there and watch the bloody joust, Ned.”

It was the first time in days that she had called him Ned and, even without looking at him, she knew she had surprised him enough that would not go threaten Oberyn for some imagined slight against her.

Still slouched in her seat, Lyanna continued to watch the match, watching as the final tilt took place and, secretly, hoped Ser Barristan would win.

She had nothing against Rhaegar, had only spoken to him once, during the first day of the tourney, but she did not, for some reason, want to see him win. She found herself holding her breath as the Prince and knight rode, their horses galloping at full speed, towards one another. She finally sat upright as the two came crashing together, Ser Barristan’s lance breaking but Rhaegar’s strike threw the knight from his horse.

_Damn,_ she thought with a frown as the crowd roared and cheered for their Prince.

She watched as Rhaegar removed his helm and helped Ser Barristan to his feet before riding to the main box where Lord Whent and King Aerys, who looked bored and angry in equal measures, sat. Lord Whent was smiling as he stood, holding out the laurel of blue winter roses, the crown for the Queen of Love and Beauty, for the Prince to take.

She knew, like the rest of the crowd, that Rhaegar would gift it to his wife and, with a huff, unhappy that Ser Barristan had lost, slumped back down in her seat once more, no longer paying any attention.

Ned had just started to say something to her when Rhaegar, still holding the laurel of roses, suddenly rode to where they were sitting, pulling his horse aside the barrier, a soft smile on his face, violet eyes sparkling in the afternoon sun.

Lyanna frowned, confused by the Prince’s actions, but before she, or her companions, could speak, Rhaegar leaned over to lay the laurel in her lap.

A hush fell over the crowd, all eyes on her and Rhaegar, and Lyanna’s eyes widened as she looked up from the frosty blue flowers to the Prince’s face.

What, by the gods, Old and New, was the man playing at?


	4. Chapter 4

The moment Lyanna had been able to escape her brothers, and her much unwanted babysitter, she had. Disappearing as far from the tourney grounds, as far from everyone, as she could manage to get without climbing into the saddle of her horse and riding for Winterfell.

She found herself sitting in the shade of a large oak, holding that ridiculous laurel of roses, wondering just what rumours, what lies, people would tell of her now.

Turning the laurel over and over between her hands, the soft petals brushing against her skin, she thought about tearing the damn thing apart.

_Queen of Love and Beauty._

She wanted to laugh.

Love and beauty?

What did she know about love and beauty?

Her idea of beauty was a finely crafted sword or the power and stamina of a good horse.

And as for love, what did she really know of love? Oh, she loved her family, there was no doubt to that, but what did she know of the sort of love her parents had shared? The love that, even now, prevented her father from taking another wife despite the not so quiet urges of his advisors.

So no, she was no _Queen of Love and Beauty_.

Such a titled belonged to softer women.

Women who happily wore pretty dresses of silk and lace and thought the best thing in life was to marry a noble man and rule his keep and have his children.

Her nose wrinkled in immediate distaste.

That was not her.

It had never been her.

It would _never_ her.

Her fingers twisted around the flowers and, once again, she thought about tearing it apart.

Before she could make a decision, however, her attention was caught by someone clearing their throat.

Looking up, she found Howland watching her with an unreadable expression and she made an angry sound as she looked at the flowers again.

“This…I didn’t…I…”

She growled in frustration.

First the incident with Oberyn had blown her life apart and now, now she had to face this nightmare of being crowned by a married man. A man married to the sister of the man she was set to marry in the very near future.

It was all just too much.

Howland, quiet thing that he was, said nothing at first. He merely moved to sit next to her with a soft sigh, looking at the flowers, at the way her fingers clenched and bruised the delicate petals.

“You’ll ruin it, doing that,” he pointed out softly and she growled again, tossing the laurel to the ground.

“I don’t _care_!”

She glared at the blue flowers as though she could make them wither and vanish with her anger alone. As though she could erase the fact that _everyone_ had witnessed the Crown Prince bestowing the laurel upon her.

“I _never_ asked for it! And I certainly don’t _want_ it!”

“Well,” Howland said as he carefully picked the laurel up, mindful of the delicate petals, looking at Lyanna with a small smile. “The Prince must have thought you deserved it. So…I mean…if the Crown Prince thinks you should be Queen of Love and Beauty than maybe…AGH! Lya! Stop!”

Lyanna swatted at him a few more times, hands open and flat rather than balled into fists, aiming for the back of his head when he tried to curl away from her, before slumping forward, glaring at the nothing in particular as she picked at the grass.

“You’re so stupid,” she muttered at him, no real heat in her words.

Howland rubbed the back of his head as he looked from the laurel of roses to her.

“Your father had to stop Brandon from challenging the Prince,” he said after a few minutes of silence. “Seems Brandon thinks this is all some sort of plot to tarnish your reputation even further.”

Lyanna snorted and shook her head.

“I’m sure Rhaegar Targaryen has better things to do than worry about my reputation.”

“Lord Rickard said near the same thing.”

Lyanna couldn’t help but chuckle at that, thankful that her father had at least some sense and realized she wasn’t always to blame for things.

She glanced at Howland.

“What did Ned say?”

The young man shrugged.

“He did not really say anything. He’s quiet, Lord Eddard is. Always has been.”

Lyanna hummed in response. It had always been difficult to judge Ned’s moods or thoughts. There was a reason he was called the Quiet Wolf after all. But she did not imagine he was any happier than Brandon over this situation. He just was not as hot headed as their eldest brother and would, dutifully, wait for their father’s word before he did or said anything to Rhaegar. 

Sighing softly, she looked at Howland.

“Why do _you_ think he gave it to me?”

Howland blinked, clearly surprised by the question, and he looked at the flowers, rubbing a thumb over a petal before he answered.

“I think he was just trying to be kind,” he said with a shrug, remembering how the Prince had said nothing to Lyanna. Had simply given her the flowers and smiled before riding on. “I think…well…his wife is to be your sister-by-law soon so…so I think he was just trying to be kind for her sake.”

Lyanna made a soft sound and shook her head.

“All he did was kick a hornet nest that was already riled up.”

It was Howland’s turn to snort.

“Aye, he did that,” he agreed, grinning a bit. “Perhaps more so than your stunt as the Knight of the Laughing Tree. You know folks are still arguing about who that was.”

That looked at each other for a moment before they both start laughing.

Lyanna leaned against Howland’s shoulder, smiling, remembering his apprehension at helping her that day, afraid she would be caught or worse, hurt or killed. But she could not have let those squires go unpunished for their actions, their cruelty, towards him. She hadn’t even known him but had jumped to his defence all the same. He was of the Neck, part of the North, and that meant he was her people. She might have been a daughter of Hosue Stark but, daughter or not, it was her duty to protect her people.

“Everything will be alright, Lya,” Howland said softly once they had stopped laughing, tipping his head so his cheek rested against her hair. “You’ll see.”

Lyanna huffed and tilted her head to better look at his face.

“I’m being forced to marry a man I don’t want,” she reminded. “I’ve been crowned the Queen of Love and Beauty by the Crown Prince, everyone is thinking the worst of me and you’re saying that everything will be alright?”

Howland shrugged, placing the laurel on her head, which made her roll her eyes.

“The gods work in funny ways,” he reminded as he reached out, tucking her hair behind her ear. “But, I think, even in this, they have a plan. One you’ll understand in time.”

Lyanna could not help but smile at Howland’s optimism, reaching up and touching the crown of flowers.

“You really think things will be alright?”

Howland nodded.

“I do, Lya. I really do.”

Lyanna continued to smile as she leaned against him, his arm wrapping around her and hugging her close.

**_oOoOoOo_ **

“What in the Seven Hells was he _thinking_?!”

Elia caught Oberyn’s wrist before he could throw the pitcher of wine.

“You are not a child,” she hissed, all but wrestling the pitcher away from him, ignoring the sharp glare he gave her as she practically slammed it down on the table. “You do not need to throw things when you are angry!”

“So I should go and gut your rat bastard of a husband then?”

“Oberyn,” Elia’s voice held warning but her brother, already worked into such a state, just pressed on.

“He dishonoured you, Elia! Giving that…that… _child_ the crown!” Oberyn looked like he wanted nothing more than to collect his spear, hunt Rhaegar down and make good on his threat to gut the man. “He might as well have spat on you, the dirty fucking…”

The sound of Elia slapping her brother in the face was almost defeaning.

He stared at her in wide eyed surprise.

She had not struck him since they were children.

Her dark eyes blazed with a carefully controlled fury and now, now it was directed at him. 

“You will stop talking about my husband that way.”

Elia had drawn herself to full height, which, while not overly impressive, immediately reminded Oberyn of their mother whenever she had had to assert her power over someone who thought they were her superior simply because she was a woman.

“He is my husband and I know you never approved of our match, you ever argued with mother about it, but you are going to have to accept that he _is_ my husband and the next time you insult him I will do as any good Dornish woman did and give you a new scar to go along with all the rest. Am I in anyway unclear, Oberyn?”

“But he…”

“Did only as I asked!”

Oberyn blinked.

“What?” He blinked again. Confused. “You…Elia…you what?”

Elia sighed and shook her head.

“She just…” She sighed again. “The last few days she just looked so upset that I thought…I though it would make her smile. I did not realize how much worse it would make everything.”

Oberyn, unable to believe what he was hearing, grabbed the pitcher of wine, pouring two glasses, offering one to Elia, who shook her head, before he dropped down to sit on the edge of the bed.

“I don’t understand,” he admitted before taking a long drink, nearly draining the glass. “What do you care about her? Some girl you do not even know and you…you want to make her _smile_?”

He was chuckling until he saw the way Elia was scowling at him.

“I care,” she snapped. “Because soon that _child_ , as you insist on calling her, will be my sister-by-law and, unlike your relationship with my husband, I would actually care to have a decent relationship with her.”

Oberyn stared at her for a moment before letting out a low sound and downing the rest of his wine.

“Well, I hope this _good relationship_ will not include swapping stories of motherhood or child raising.”

Elia stared at him for a moment.

“Oberyn,” she started but Oberyn quickly shook his head.

“I’ll marry the girl,” he said quickly, ignoring the way Elia’s stare quickly became a glare. “But honestly, Elia, do not expect that I will have babes with her. I prefer women to girls. Women who know what they’re doing with their bodies and their pleasure. I do not need some virgin girl who’ll cry and want to be coddled and…”

Oberyn barely managed to duck the glass Elia snatched from the table and threw at him. The wine splattered over him and the bed and he sputtered, shocked by the uncharacteristic outburst from his sister.

“Elia!”

“I hope she is as fierce as I have heard,” Elia snarled as the door opened and Rhaegar entered, the man stilling immediately as he took in the sight of his wife and her brother. Oberyn, hair dripping with wine, and Elia’s eyes flashing with a fury rarely seen in her. “I hope she is more than you can handle. I hope she puts you in your damned place because the Seven know there may not be another woman alive capable of it!”

Elia whirled around then, her dress swirling about her grandly, and stormed out of the room, pushing by her husband and slamming the door behind her.

Rhaegar looked as his brother-by-law, seeing Oberyn to be in just as sour a mood as his wife and sighed, shaking his head before following after Elia, all while muttering about fiery tempered Dornish.


	5. Chapter 5

Two weeks.

It had been two weeks since the tourney of Harrenhal.

Two weeks of travelling home.

Two long weeks which had ended not with a peaceful homecoming as Lyanna had hoped but rather with her being handed off to others to be prepared for her wedding.

Lyanna sat in the main hall of Winterfell, pretending to listen to the Septra, lost in her thoughts. 

Despite being in Winterfell, in the North, her wedding would be preformed by a Septon. It would be a ceremony before the Seven. To show respect for Oberyn and House Martell. To show her acceptance of her marriage into a Southern House. Not that she was truly accepting of it. She may have been forced to marry a Southern man but she would not accept his gods as her own. She was of the North, like her ancestors before her, and she would keep the Old Gods, no matter what anyone, including Oberyn, said or thought.

Sitting there, the elderly woman’s voice droning on and on, Lyanna couldn’t help but sigh softly as she leaned back in her seat, mind drifting, finding herself thinking of what exactly had gotten her into this wretched mess in the first place.

_She carefully hid the last of her armor, having ordered Benjen and Howland to make themselves scarce just in case she was discovered. Better she take the blame alone if anyone learned the truth of the Knight of the Laughing Tree. The King had been furious and she knew if she was discovered there would be hell to pay._

_But she would do it all again if she had to._

_All for the sake of a crannogman that three squires, if one could call those bullies that, had decided they could look down on, that they could beat, all because he had been different than them. Because they deemed him to be nothing because of who he was and where he came frome._

_Lyanna still couldn’t believe she had managed to win. That she had been strong enough to actual best three, trained and seasoned knights. Three knights who were masters over those three wretched squires who had tried to hurt her friend. Even more unbelievable was that, so far, she had managed to go undetected by the men, Lords and knights alike, even now searching all over Harrenhal and the land around it, for the man they were calling the Knight of the Laughing Tree._

_With the last of the armor safely hidden away, Lyanna stood, quickly casting a wary look around, straightening her tunic before turning and starting to make her way back towards the tourney grounds, smiling to herself as she remembered the looks on the faces of those knights when she had bested them. The only thing that would have made it sweeter was if they had _known_ it was her. That a girl, little more than four and ten, had bested them._

_“You fought well today.”_

_She started, surprised by the voice, and whirled around, hand unconsciously falling to the hidden dagger on her belt, fingers curling around the hilt instinctively as she turned, looking at the man who stood but a few feet from her._

_It took a moment, her fear about being caught rattling her more than she would ever admit, to recognize the man._

_Oberyn Martell, a Prince of Dorne, brother to the wife of the Crown Prince._

_He stood tall and proud, dressed in dark trousers and a dark red tunic embroidered with small golden suns, his dark hair was swept back from his face, but a few curls falling across his face, and his dark eyes were fixed on her in much the way a serpent watched from long grass. A spear was held deftly in hand, the shaft resting against his shoulder. She eyed the weapon warily, a slight, undeniable shiver rolling down her spine, as she recalled rumors about the Dornish Prince and the blades of his weapons being coated in poison._

_Despite that, she squared her shoulders, forcing her hand to release her dagger, and letting her arms drop to her sides. Masking her features as best she could, she pretended to be more relaxed than she felt._

_“I’m sorry, my Lord,” she said, momentarily uncertain if the title was correct or not, making certain to use the same voice she used with Robert. The voice of the simpering child so many mistook her to be. “But I do not know…”_

_Oberyn, with a flick of his wrist, twisted his spear, using it to point at the spot where she had hidden the last of her armor._

_“You were clever,” he admitted, a grin dancing across his face even as he let his spear rest once more against his shoulder. “Coming and going like a ghost. But not quite clever enough.”_

_She made a low, almost unhappy sound._

__“Clearly.” __

_He chuckled at her dry, sarcastic tone and that grin, that seemingly smug grin, grew a little wider and she had to fight down the urge to take a swing at him. Just to rid him of that grin. Did he think himself clever? Did he think he now had something to hold over her? What gods by damned game was he trying to play? Well, whatever it was, she certainly wasn’t going to be stupid enough to play along with it._

_“And what,_ my Lord _,” she said flatly. “Do you plan to do with your…_ knowledge? _”_

_Oberyn’s grin never faltered as he flipped his spear, the tip pointing at Lyanna’s feet._

_“I would see if you are truly as skilled as you seem or if it was mere luck that you bested those knights.”_

_She bristled almost immediately._

_Luck?_

_Did he just suggest she had bested those idiots by luck? That she was incapable of possessing the skill to beat those buffoons?_

_Glancing around, she spotted a few sparring swords resting near a cart and, quick as a whip, grabbed one. She did not give a thought to propriety or how it would reflect upon her or her family if this should be witnessed by the wrong people. She would not let his doubt in her abilities go unanswered._

_She saw his grin widen, which served to infuriate her further, when she settled into a defensive stance. She had just started to draw a deep, calming breath, when he struck out with his spear, leaving her with barely any time to react, to block the strike. She understood then why he was so often compared to a serpent. He was quick. Quicker than she had expected and she was having a difficult time holding onto a defense._

_He attacked._

_She parried._

_She attacked._

_He dodged._

_They went back and forth. Back and forth. It was almost like a dance. It set Lyanna’s heart racing a joyful smile gracing her face. She had not felt so alive even when facing off against those knights. She saw the look in his eyes, a look of enjoyment that likely matched or rivaled her own, and she found herself laughing as they spun across the grass._

_When he swung low with his spear unexpectedly, clearly aiming for her legs, no doubt meaning to knock her to the ground, she managed to jump just high enough to avoid it. The change in their positions meant that, for a moment at least, his back was slightly to her because of his lunge and she managed, twisting round as quickly as she could, to tap his shoulder with the flat of her sword._

_He glanced at her over his shoulder, still grinning, clearly taking the action for what it was meant to be. A telling of what could have happened had their fight been real._

_His grin grew wider and, before she had the chance to right herself or prepare, he lashed out, managing to disarm her, the sparring sword flying from her grasp to land harmlessly in the grass, and press the edge of his spear to her neck._

_Oberyn was still grinning as she held her hands up in a sign of surrender._

_She may not have won the fight but even she could see she had at least winded him, left him panting softly for breath, as he slowly lowered his spear._

_“You fight well,” he admitted with a nod and a chuckle. “Were you to train, truly train, you might even be a fair match for Arthur Dayne.”_

_She felt her cheeks heat at the praise, at the compliment, and couldn’t help but chuckle at the absurdity of his words. A match for Arthur Dayne. The gods would likely fall from the sky or rise from the ground first. But it was a pleasant thought all the same. Even though she knew it would never come to pass. Not for her. Her family, nor her betrothed, would ever permit it. She was, after all, meant to be a proper lady. Even if that was not the life she wanted for herself._

_She said nothing in reply, knowing anything she said would sound like hollow thanks, and the expression on Oberyn’s face shifted slightly. The Dornish Prince seemed to realize that given her status in the world, her House and family, his words were more a taunt than praise. He shook his head, dark curls drifting across his forehead, before smiling, a true smile and not that smug grin._

_“I believe,” he said. “That as the victor of our match I am entitled to a prize.”_

_It was an obvious attempt to deflect from his previous comment and it made Lyanna snort._

_“And what,_ my Lord _, would you claim as your prize?”_

_He surprised her when he stepped closer, free hand lifting to cup her jaw, and leaning down to brush his lips to hers in a soft, chaste kiss._

“Lady Lyanna!”

Lyanna was snapped from her thoughts and looked quickly at the Septa, who was scowling quite fiercely at her, and she swallowed around the sudden lump in her throat as she blinked almost owlishly at the elderly woman.

“Septa?”

The woman’s scowl deepened, making her look even older, and Lyanna bit the inside of her cheek to keep from laughing.

“Am I boring you, my Lady?”

Lyanna was quick to shake her head.

“No,” she said. “Of course not, Septa.”

The Septa huffed, clearly not believing her, and took a step closer, giving her a look no doubt meant to be reproachful but Lyanna merely bristled under it.

“Your wedding, my Lady,” the woman all but barked and Lyanna, unaccustomed to being looked at or spoken to like that, fought the urge not to fire back. “Is in two days and you seem to be doing your utmost to avoid learning what you must know for the ceremony. You still refuse to properly recite your vows and…”

“Perhaps, Septa,” a gentle voice sounded from the doorway, cutting the elderly woman off with a surprisingly soft authority. “Lady Lyanna would benefit from some the teaches of someone who is _actually_ married.”

Lyanna and the Septa both looked, surprised to find Princess Elia there, her daughter held in her arms while her handmaiden, the Lady Ashara Dayne, and two members of the Kingsguard following close behind.

Reflexively, Lyanna stood, dropping into what was likely the most awkward curtsy which earned her another scowl from the Septa who curtsied much more elegantly.

“Your Grace,” the Septa greeted politely, warmly, and Lyanna smiled weakly.

Elia handed her daughter to Ashara, who smiled and cuddled the tiny girl, before walking forward, the knights standing to either side of the door. When the Princess moved to stand before her Lyanna tried to smile, to show the manners she had actually learned despite her father’s doubts, but knew it had not come across well as Elia smiled softly, taking her hand and patting it lightly.

“There’s no need to be nervous,” Elia said, smiling warmly. “In a few days we will be family after all.”

Lyanna swallowed thickly and nodded.

“Of course, Your Grace.”

Elia chuckled and shook her head, reaching up to cup Lyanna’s cheek tenderly.

“We are to be family,” she repeated, smile never wavering, a kindness in her eyes that Lyanna had not been expecting, especially considering that damnable incident at the tourney. “I think it is only right that you feel free to address me as Elia.”

Lyanna gave a slight, shaky nod.

“Of course, Your…” She quickly caught herself and watched as Elia’s smile widened. “Of course, Elia.”

The Princess’ smile brightened almost immediately and it was easy for Lyanna to see why so many were smitten with the woman. Elia seemed the sort who was easy to like.

“Wonderful.” Elia tugged Lyanna a few steps away from her chair. “Now, I know the Septa is doing her utmost to prepare you for your wedding but I’ve found that a Septa cannot properly prepare a young lady for her wedding as they’ve no experience in it.” Elia gave the Septa a charming smile. “No offence intended, Septa.”

The elderly woman, clearly quite taken with Elia, merely chuckled lightly.

“None taken, Your Grace.”

Elia nodded and turned her attention back to Lyanna.

“Before I married,” the Dornish Princess explained. “My mother had me practice the ceremony, many times, just so I knew, on some level at the least, what to expect.”

Elia walked Lyanna over to stand by the door.

“I think that’s what we’ll do,” Elia continued, patting Lyanna’s arm gently before turning to her guards. “Now, Uncle Lewyn, if you would kindly stand with the Septa you’ll play Oberyn’s role for this while the Septa kindly plays the Septon.”

The Septa beamed proudly, clearly thrilled to have been included by the graceful and charming Princess, while Ser Lewyn chuckled, nodding to his niece before moving to take his place. Elia nodded in approval.

“Now,” Elia said, gaze on the other knight. “Arthur, be a dear and come here to play the role of Lord Rickard.”

Lyanna’s heart leapt a bit as Ser Arthur Dayne, the famed Sword of the Morning, rumored to be the greatest knight in all the Seven Kingdoms, grinned, bright and warm, before closing the small distance to stand just to Lyanna’s right. He extended his arm for her and, after a deep breath, she carefully folded her hand in the bed of arm, still nervous, and, seeming to sense her hesitance, he gave her a playful grin and then a wink. It reminded her so much of Brandon that she couldn’t help the way she smiled and her quiet chuckle.

Her reaction, it seemed, was good, because Elia giggled herself.

“Now,” the Princess said, stepping back a few paces, giving them room. “Lord Rickard will escort you to your betrothed.

Lyanna nodded and, after a quick glance at Ser Arthur, walked with the knight towards the Septa and Ser Lewyn.

She felt rather foolish, stumbled a step or two, but Ser Arthur was careful and let her take the time she needed. Smiling at her when she risked a glance at him. Suddenly she was grateful for Elia’s suggestion of practice. If this was how she managed when it wasn’t even the Septon and Oberyn waiting for her then she’d have made a right mess of things during the actual ceremony.

Once they finally reached Ser Lewyn, who was smiling softly, kindly, his features similar to Oberyn’s but a little sharper, his eyes narrower, Ser Arthur paused while giving his fellow knight a stony look, no doubt attempting to do what he thought Lord Rickard would do on behalf of his daughter, which served only to maker the older knight chuckle and shake his head. Lyanna grinned, however, at the scene, fighting down a laugh herself as, with a nod, Ser Arthur allowed Ser Lewyn to take her hand before stepping aside.

Ser Lewyn gave her a kind smile and, despite her nerves, Lyanna felt herself relax just a touch.

They went through the ceremony, the Septa seemingly quite thrilled to be part of it all, and Lyanna found herself stammering over a few words, earning a scowl from the Septa, but an encouraging look from Ser Lewyn which helped a touch to calm her. When all was done and finished, Elia clapped even though the Septa appeared unconvinced.

“Well done,” the Dornish Princess said, smiling as Lyanna turned to her. “A few more times and I think everything will be just fine.”

Lyanna couldn’t help butlaugh and Elia’s smile widened as the Princess instructed them all to return to their original positions and they would begin again.

Others would find it absolutely foolish, like a children’s game, but Lyanna felt it was working and that, she decided, was all that mattered.


	6. Chapter 6

Two days passed in the blink of an eye and, as dawn broke on the morning of her wedding, Lyanna rose and slipped from the castle to the godswood.

She walked through the shadows, moving between the trees as the sky slowly lightened and the rest of the castle began to wake, her mind wandering through the many memories the place held. Memories she would always treasure but feared would fade once she finally took leave of Winterfell, of the North, after her wedding.

She walked until, in the heart of the godswood, she stood before the great weirwood tree.

She looked at the face in the trunk, the face said to have been carved by the Children of the Forest, and drew a deep breath as she bowed her head in respect to her gods. The gods of her forefathers. The gods that had watched over House Stark, over the North, for generations beyond memory. As she closed her eyes a gentle breeze drifted through the godswood, ruffling her loose hair and feeling like a soft touch against her cheek. For a moment it was easy to forget what would be happening in but a few short hours. She could pretend it was just another day.

And yet, with a single beat of her heart, the ability to forget, to pretend, slipped away like water between her fingers.

She drew another deep breath and folded her hands over her heart as she knelt.

“Blessed be Old Ones,” she spoke softly as she opened her eyes, looking at the weeping red eyes of the tree. “Guides and guardians, I ask that you watch over me in this hour of change. I ask that you grant me the grace to do my duty. That you grant me patience and strength when faced with challenges that might otherwise overwhelm me.”

She reached out a hand, fingertips brushing against the pale bark.

“I ask that you grant me protection even when I am so far from this home and the shelter of the branches of your sacred tree.”

She bowed her head once more, eyes closing once again, drawing another deep breath as she remembered a time when her mother had held her safe in her arms before this tree. Praying for the gods to be kind and to protect their family.

With a soft sound she opened her eyes, staring at the tree, at the face that stared silently back at her with its red eyes and grin, before she slowly stood. She took in the face of the great tree a moment longer before turning and striding back towards the gate leading the way back into the castle. She lingered a moment at that gate, glancing briefly back, watching a gently breeze make the red leaves of the mighty weirwood dance lightly. She wondered, for a moment, if that was the gods’ way of saying goodbye to her.

Drawing a deep breath, she forced herself onwards, trying to pretend the sound of the gate closing behind her did not make her think of things ending for good.

She moved, silent as a shadow, down the path and, instead of heading back inside, instead of going back to her bedchamber where the Septa and handmaidens would, soon enough, be looking for her, she swung the other way and, soon enough, was crossing the courtyard.

It was still early enough that the yard was all but empty, save for a few servants who were likely heading elsewhere in the castle to tend to their duties, but none of them paid her much attention aside from nodding or murmuring a quiet good morning. She was glad to find that their behaviour towards her had not changed even though she was to be wed. Most of them had known her nearly her entire life and the normalcy of their behaviour gave her a small sense of peace.

Without any real thought she headed towards the one place that had always served as a sanctuary of sorts. The stables.

She would have loved, more than anything, to tack up her horse and just ride. To disappear over the hills and into the Wolfswood. To pretend, for a few hours at least, that today was just another day. But she knew if she did she would face her father’s anger and disapproval. It was her wedding day and, even though the ceremony was still hours away, it would hardly look appropriate to any should the bride disappear for hours only to return smelling of sweat and horse.

The stable was quiet, save for the sounds of the horses, as she entered and she smiled as a few curious heads lifted or turned towards her. As she neared a stall towards the back, she gave a soft whistle, watching as the horse within lifted his pale head and snorted in response, causing her to smile.

“Hello, Frostfoot,” she greeted warmly, leaning against the stall, reaching out to run her hand over a snowy neck. “How’s my charming boy, hmm?”

Frostfoot, so named because of his white and grey speckled coat, nickered softly and bumped his head against her shoulder. A familiar greeting that she met by scratching beneath his chin, giggling softly when he made a soft sound and pressed down against her hand happily. For all the changes in her life she was glad that Frostfoot would remain a constant.

She’d chosen him when he’d been but a colt and had helped the stable master to break him when the time had come. He responded to her in a way no other horse ever had, or likely would, and he meant so very much to her. She was glad he was something she would be able to take to Dorne with her. A small piece of home. He may not be a sand steed like the Dornishmen rode, swift and lean, but she was still willing to bet her Frostfoot could hold his own against any horse of Dorne.

Frostfoot bumped her shoulder again, snorting, and she laughed, reaching for an apple in a small bucket nearby, when a voice caught her attention.

“Lya.”

Lyanna could not help the tension in her shoulders at the sound of Robert’s voice and, as she turned, she wondered how she had not noticed his footsteps. Had he come looking for her or had he merely happened upon her? And why, in the name of the Gods, Old and New, was he not still in bed? Given all he had drunk the night before she was surprised he had not slipped into some sort of coma. Surprised further that he had not fell down a set of stairs on his way to his bed. Which likely meant that Ned had aided him in some fashion. Her brother was a fool to ignore Robert’s shortcomings. A fool for believing the man would ever change.

“Lord Robert,” she greeted softly, calmly, reminding herself that, technically, Robert was a guest in her father’s home and she must treat him as such.

When he snorted, an unhappy and dismissive sound, she bit her tongue to keep from saying something.

“So it’s to be proper titles, is it,” he asked, taking a few steps towards her and, though he didn’t appear angry, she prepared herself for a rage none-the-less. “After all we meant to one another.”

Lyanna huffed and shook her head.

Why could Robert not let this go? Why did he have to keep insisting that they had meant something to one another? He barely _knew_ her. Not the real her. All he knew was what he saw. What he had heard and learned from Ned. Not once had he ever made an effort to really know her. Not. Once.

“We were betrothed, Lord Robert,” she replied coldly. “Nothing more.”

His gaze narrowed, nostrils flared, and suddenly she understood why so many had likened him to a bull. He did certainly look like one at that moment.

“ _Were betrothed_ ,” he repeated, all but spitting the words and, in his eyes, burned the truth. He was not over their broken betrothal. Not that she had ever entertained the notion that he was. He was not that sort of man. “And whose fault is it that we are no longer betrothed, eh? Who holds blame for broken dreams and broken heart?”

She let out a low sound, growing angry.

She had taken enough blame, for what happened with Oberyn, for what happened with Rhaegar, she would take no more.

“Do not,” she growled. “Paint me the villain in this. I…”

“Are set to marry another. This very day.” Robert’s gaze turned hard as he closed the distance between them, not standing close enough to touch, and she immediately regretted leaving her dagger in her room. She had not thought to need it within her family home. “Your actions have led to this. Led to your father breaking agreement with me so that you might marry another.”

Robert spoke as though she had wanted this. As though she had wanted Oberyn over him. Which was ridiculous. She wanted no man. Period.

“My father,” she snapped hotly, glaring at Robert even as he glared at her. “Sought to protect _your_ reputation. He feared what would be said of you if we married after all that happened at that Gods be damned tourney.”

Robert snorted again.

“You mean he feared my wrath should we have wed and then you gave birth to a child that I doubt would have been mine.”

Lyanna blinked, feeling like she had just been dunked in icy water.

Had he just…

“Are you claiming to think that I…that I laid with Prince Oberyn?!” She hissed the words like an angry cat and barely resisted the urge to put her fist into his face. “Are you mad?!”

“What other reason would there be for your father to insist on such a hurried wedding?”

“Perhaps to salvage what little could be salvaged of my so called honour after people were already whispering of what they _think_ happened between Prince Oberyn and myself!” How could Robert be so stupid as to not see that for himself? “And that was before the fresh whispers that now fly because I was given a ridiculous crown of flowers!”

And that, for whatever reason, had Robert sneering.

“Ah, yes,” he spat. “Just what did you do that prompted my royal prick cousin to give you that crown?”

“Robert!”

She hurriedly glanced around, worried that should the wrong person hear him, things would become quite difficult for him. Insulting the royal heir would earn him no favour with the crown. Could even lead to his death should the wrong voice whisper in Aerys’ ear. She may have little feelings for Robert but even she did not wish him to suffer the wrath of the Mad King.

“Do not tell me you did nothing,” Robert continued as though her hissed warning meant nothing. “No married man gives a woman the Crown of Love and Beauty unless he’s thanking her for spreading her legs and letting him have a go.”

Lyanna was barely aware of moving until after she slapped Robert across the face. Her palm stung and she felt her face heating up, her rage and disbelief warring within her and she breathed heavily as she glared daggers at him.

How dare he suggest she had stooped so low.

How. Dare. He.

“You are a useless piece of horseshit,” she snarled. “To think such a thing! To _say_ it! I didn’t even _want_ that damn crown of flowers! Just like I didn’t want you, you brainless…”

She should not have been surprised by the sudden blow.

She knew Robert had a temper. Knew he was not above striking a woman in anger.

But as she stumbled back, barely catching herself against the wall of Frostfoot’s stall, pain flaring in her cheek, she was shocked. She looked at Robert with wide eyes, hand coming up to cover her throbbing cheek, the skin unbroken but a bruise would certainly form there soon enough. He had struck her. The man who professed to love her. The man who had sworn, time and time again, that they were meant to be together. Did this show him anything at all? Did this not show him how awful they would have been as husband and wife?

Robert stared at her, wide eyed and face pale, as though he could scarcely believe what he had just done and, for a moment, she saw fear flash through his eyes, though could not say what scared him the most. Likely the fear that she would run for her father. Or Brandon.

“Lya…”

Robert started to reach out, possibly to steady her or to comfort or Gods only knew what, but his hand never reached her.

The edge of a sword blade was suddenly pressed to the side of the man’s neck, stilling him like a rabbit that had caught the scent of a fox.

Over Robert’s shoulder, standing close enough that his approach should not have gone unnoticed by either of them, was Ser Lewyn Martell.

The Dornish knight’s dark eyes were fixed on Robert with all the fury of a raging fire.

It was such a contrast from the smiling, gentle man Lyanna had come to know over the last few days and she couldn’t help the way her heart beat faster.

“Step away, Baratheon,” Lewyn spoke softly, sounding unbelievably calm, but there was a fire there as well.

“Ser Lewyn, I…” 

Robert started, head turning slightly, warily, to look back at the knight but Lewyn silenced him by pressing the sword closer, a shallow cut opening on Robert’s neck and thin line of blood welling up to pool against the edge of the blade. It was enough of a sting, of a warning, to cause Robert to fall still and silent again. The Dornish knight let out a low sound.

“Do not make me repeat myself.”

Robert swallowed visibly and slowly, cautiously, moved, allowing Lewyn to guide his movements with the press of the sword until the Dornish knight was between the man and Lyanna. The blade of Lewyn’s sword shifted, leaving the Storm Lord’s neck only briefly to allow the change in positions, barely a heartbeat, a testament to Lewyn’s skills, before it rested once again against vulnerable flesh.

“You should count yourself lucky, Baratheon,” Lewyn still spoke calmly. “That I have not the temperament of my nephew or his soon to be good-brother. If I did, perhaps your head might now be separated from your shoulders.”

Robert’s eyes flashed with his own fury.

“This does not concern you, Ser. This was a mis…”

“Do not think to claim it a mistake or misunderstanding.” Lewyn pressed the sword closer, causing Robert to fall silent once more. “A man who strikes a woman is less than a dog. And a man who strikes a woman he has professed to love is less than dog shit.”

Robert let out an angry sound but wisely held his tongue.

“The only mistake,” Lewyn continued. “Is yours. This does concern me. Lady Lyanna is to marry my nephew, she is soon to be part of my family, and while some may forget the ties of family upon taking their oath of the Kingsguard, I assure you, Baratheon, I have not.”

Lewyn gave Robert a dangerous look.

“Lady Lyanna is soon to be my niece by marriage and as such I will not tolerate assaults upon her person. Verbal or physical. If you should ever speak out of turn or raise a hand to her again it will be the _last time_ you have the hand.”

“You can’t…”

Lewyn laughed, shaking his head, uncaring whatever Robert had meant to say.

“Another mistake,” the knight pointed out. “It will not necessarily be I who removes the hand.” Those dark eyes seemed to darken further. “I’m certain one, if not both, of my nephews would be quite willing to do the deed. Or perhaps one of Lady Lyanna’s brothers. I’m sure Lord Brandon would be interested to learn of your actions against his beloved sister.”

Again Robert had the good grace to look afraid. Not that the fear was enough to keep hold of his tongue.

“She lashed out first,” Robert snarled and Lyanna, shielded by Lewyn’s position between them, bristled. “I was…”

“Calling her a whore.”

Robert blinked, surprised by Lewyn’s declaration, and Lyanna looked at the Dornish knight in equal surprise. How close had the knight been during their confrontation?

“I am not surprised a woman would lash out over such an accusation,” Lewyn continued. “Even the most experienced women would take insult to being called a whore by a man with your reputation.”

“What?!” Robert stiffened visibly and, if not for the sword at his neck, would have likely taken a step forward. “And what is that supposed to mean?!”

“Do you not, Baratheon, have a baseborn daughter in Eyrie? It would not surprise me if there was more than one child walking Westeros with your blood in their veins.”

Robert’s eyes widened and a fraction but Lyanna could not even feign surprise. She knew about the girl, Mya, and had known for some time thanks to a slip from Ned. It was one of the many reasons she had known she and Robert would not work as husband and wife.

“Leave, Baratheon,” Lewyn said, slowly drawing his sword away but remaining between Lyanna and Robert. “Now.”

“You…”

“It was not a request.”

Robert stood there a moment longer, clearly weighing his options, of which there were truly few, before seeming to decide to heed Lewyn’s warning and, with a final look at Lyanna, turned and stormed out of the stables, grumbling to himself as he went.

Lewyn stood for a moment, no doubt waiting to be certain Robert was truly gone, before turning to face Lyanna.

She tried to force a smile, to appear fine, but when he lifted his hand, thumb brushing lightly against her cheek. She shied away from the touch, shaking her head enough to cause her hair to tumble down around her face.

“I am fine,” she said softly. “He’s never…” She let out a humourless chuckle. “This has never happened before.”

“And is shall not happen again. By any hand. Not even the hand of the man you marry today.”

Lyanna was touched at Lewyn’s words but shook her head.

“You cannot guarantee such a thing. No one can.”

“I can lessen the odds of it.”

Lyanna frowned slightly and before she could ask what he meant, Lewyn set his sword aside before reaching up and pulling the golden clasp from his hair, which tumbled in dark and silver waves around his olive face. It was a beautiful hairpiece, handcrafted and shaped like a golden sun inlaid with blood rubies and a half dozen pearls. She frowned in confusion until Lewyn, with a gentle press of his finger at the base of clip, reveal it to have a hidden blade. It was short, small and slightly curved, and though it would not be a practical weapon it would certain be enough to open a man’s wrist or throat.

Lewyn smiled slightly at the realization in her eyes, returning the blade to its hiding place, before reaching out, gathering Lyanna’s dark tresses and sliding the clip into them to pin her hair high, a few stray curls tumbling down. Lewyn tucked them behind her ear, still smiling.

“My sister had it fashioned for me when I took my oath as Kingsguard,” he explained. “Protection in case things ever took a wrong turn, she claimed.” He brushed his knuckles lightly against her cheek. “I think she would be pleased to know it will now protect you.”

Lyanna felt a small, genuine smile grace her face and she started to thank Lewyn only for a commotion in the yard just outside the stable to catch their attention.

Lewyn, ever a knight, snatched up his sword and rushed towards the door, Lyanna close behind. What they found was Oberyn, dressed much like Lewyn, standing with the shaft of his spear resting against his shoulder, his dark gaze glaring down at Robert, face down and groaning in the dirt, blood pooling from his nose. When Lewyn grunted, shaking his head, Oberyn glanced up at the older Dornishman.

“Oh, Uncle,” Oberyn spoke in a way that was, likely, meant to sound innocent but was anything but. “Lord Baratheon seems to have taken a nasty fall. Perhaps he should be escorted to the Maester.”

Lewyn rolled his eyes but moved to aid Robert, dazed from what had likely been a strike to the face from either Oberyn’s fist or spear shaft.

“Come, Baratheon,” Lewyn said. “Let us make certain you’ve not injured yourself.”

Lyanna watched them go before her attention turned to Oberyn, who watched the back of Robert’s head as though he could pierce the man’s skull with his gaze alone. His intensity sent a small tremble rolling down her spine but she was not afraid. She did not know what the feeling was but it was not fear. She cleared her throat, causing Oberyn’s gaze to jump to her, and she felt her heart leap as his expression became just a touch softer. He opened his mouth to speak but a feminine voice rang out.

“Lady Lyanna!”

Lyanna cringed as the Septa she’d been hoping to hide from for as long as possible came rushing across the yard.

“What by the Seven are you doing out here, my Lady?” The Septa was right there and caught hold of Lyanna’s arm, the woman was scowling the entire time. “You should be inside getting ready for your wedding today!”

“I just…”

The Septa did not let her finish, merely starting tugging her back towards the castle, going on and on about what still had to be done to ready Lyanna for her wedding.

Oberyn watched as the Septa all but drug his betrothed, and how he still loathed that word, back inside and found his gaze drawn to the hairclip in Lyanna’s hair. The golden clip stood out against the dark locks and, for a brief moment, he felt his stomach lurch in an unfamiliar fashion at seeing her wear the symbol of his House.

It shouldn’t have mattered, he had voiced, loudly, numerous times and to numerous people, that this would never be a true marriage. And yet there was something about seeing Lyanna, the pure embodiment of the North, wearing the sun of House Martell that, for a moment, stirred something in him he could not name.

Something he was not ready to name.


	7. Chapter 7

Being readied for her wedding was, Lyanna found, akin to what she imagined torture to be.

Lyanna would never forget being forced into a tub, by the Septa and a few servant girls, scrubbed and rinsed and cleaned. Oils rubbed into her hair to make it smell fresh, like flowers, which made her nose wrinkle in distaste as she swore she would never be subjected to this sort of nonsense again. Once pulled from the tug, she had been dried and whisked across the room where the servants assisted in dressing her and doing her hair.

She ground her teeth the entire time as she was fussed over and prodded at like she was a doll.

By the time she was dressed, hair pulled tight and high enough to make her head ache, she barely recognized herself.

Standing before a mirror she looked at her reflection and wondered if this was how she was always expected to appear now. Prim and polished. A shiny penny rather than the rough wooden nickel.

If so, her soon-to-be husband, and his family, would be sorely disappointed.

But then, she reasoned, given Oberyn’s attitude towards her being able to wield a sword and hold her own in a fight, the Dornish Prince may not care much over what she wore or how she presented herself so long as she did not embarrass his family during important situations.

Drawing a deep breath, she blinked and studied her reflection once more.

Her hair had been brushed back, pulled high and twisted into some intricate knot with tiny braids coiled around it, pinned in place with pins capped with white stones shaped like snowflakes and flowers. Her wedding dress was a pale but lovely shade of grey, almost like the first puffs of smoke from a fire, and the fabric was light, almost sheer, and flowed around her body in soft layers. It was adorned with tiny silver and white beads, the pattern of them forming the branches of a weirwood tree stretching up from the hem of the skirt to her waits. It was a beautiful gown but impractical for a Northern wedding. It had been intended for her marriage to Robert, in which the wedding would have taken place in the much warmer Storm’s End.

Drawing a slow, deep breath, she pushed away thoughts of things that no longer were, reaching up and touching the pendent of the necklace hanging about her neck.

It bore the sigil of House Stark, a wolf running across a field, and had belonged to her late mother, who had worn it on her own wedding day to Lyanna’s father. It was a symbol not only of the House she was about to leave but of the family she would carry with her in heart and spirit. She wondered, not for the first time, what her mother would say about all of this.

Looking at her reflection again, she found herself making a low sound, knowing one thing was certain.

Her mother would never send her to her wedding feeling uncomfortable.

She heard the protests of the Septa and the servants when she suddenly reached up, yanking the pins from her hair, pulling it free so it cascaded in dark waves down her shoulders and back. She grabbed a brush, refusing to let anyone else near her, refusing to submit herself to their whims or desires any further, brushing her hair out before she set about braiding it herself. The style was simple, one she had worn often, it started over the crown of her head and curled down over her left ear to rest against her shoulder. It was the way her mother had often worn her own hair. It felt right. Felt like her.

She picked up the hair clip that Lewyn had gifted her, rubbing her finger against one of the rubies before reaching it and sliding it into her hair just above her ear, pinning the braid back slightly. The gold piece stood out, bold and glimmering, against the dark tresses and she knew there would be whispers about it not matching her gown but it felt right. It brought a barely there smile to her face.

She was not going into this wedding, this marriage, pretending to be something, _someone_ , that she wasn’t.

She was no simpering, maiden girl ready to faint at the sight of her handsome, charming betrothed.

She was Lyanna Stark, the She-Wolf of Winterfell, daughter of House Stark, and she would show Oberyn, would show all of Dorne, that she would not be bent, broken or bowed.

With a deep breath, Lyanna turned to the Septa, silently daring the older woman to say anything about this. Wisely, though, the woman remained silent, merely gave a nod before leading Lyanna from the room.

The walk felt like an eternity and yet in the blink of an eye they stood before the doors of the great hall and Lyanna’s heart leapt in a mix of fear, nerves and something she could not begin to name. She stood there, looking at the doors, which had stood for centuries beyond memory, since the time of Bran the Builder, the founder of House Stark, and she took a small bit of comfort in looking at them. She may not have been lucky enough to have a traditional Northern wedding as her parents had had but, by some luck of the gods, Old and New, she was at least having it in Winterfell and that, to her, was a victory no one could take from her.

Her father was, naturally, waiting for them and a smile, sad yet proud, spread across his face as he looked at her.

“My little Lya,” he said softly, hugging her close and pressing a quick kiss to her temple. “You look so much like your mother.”

Lyanna hugged him tightly, blinking away the tears, refusing to give into the urge to beg him to stop this. To not marry her off like this. To think of another solution.

She was not a child. She would not cry and beg.

She was a she-wolf, a daughter of the North, of House Stark, and she was braver than that.

When Rickard drew back, still smiling that sadly proud smile, he turned to the waiting servant, reaching for the bride cloak, pale grey and white, embroidered with the dire wolf of their House, only to still as a shout rang out.

“Wait! Father, wait!”

Lyanna and Rickard turned, finding Brandon, dressed in his finest clothes, running down the hallway to them. Rickard demanded to know why his eldest and heir was not already inside, waiting with the others gathered for the wedding, but Brandon ignored him in favour of turning to Lyanna.

“I know it’s not the right color or usually the way this is done,” Brandon said, smiling that crooked smile she remembered so easily from days snuck away to do foolish things that only got them in trouble in the end. “But here.”

Brandon presented her with a cloak.

A cloak, she remembered, that had been a gift to Brandon from their grandfather.

The wool was black as pitch, trimmed with silver fur and embroidered with a white wolf rather than the traditional grey. It was heavier than a bride cloak would be, meant to be actually worn while riding or travelling, but it showed no signs of wear or age. She could never remember seeing Brandon actual wear it.

“Brandon,” Rickard started, no doubt to remind his son of the proper way things were to be done but Brandon, stubborn as a mule at times, refused to heed his father’s voice or advice.

“I know it is not traditional,” the Stark heir said, smiling at Lyanna, refusing to look anywhere but at his sister. “But…But it symbolizing something other than you just being a bride. It is our family. Our siblings. _Our pack_.”

Lyanna felt tears prickle her eyes and even Rickard let out a soft sound at his son’s thoughtfulness.

“I know it’s not traditional,” Brandon said again. “But…But this…” His fingers tightened around the cloak. “Please, Lya, I want you to wear it. To carry us all with you. Today and every day after.”

Lyanna knew he was right, it was not traditional, there would be whispers and looks, but it was not as though they would be the first, or last, whispers and looks she would receive. Smiling, a few tears dropping from her lashes, she pretended not to see the proud and approving look on their father’s face as she nodded and turned, letting Brandon drape the cloak over her shoulders.

It was heavier than the bride cloak, but he was right, with the wool wrapped around her, the fur brushing softly against her cheeks, she felt as though her brothers stood with her. She felt like herself.

“You’ll take it with you,” Brandon said softly as she turned to face him again, his hands resting against her shoulders, his smile wider now. “And one day you’ll give it to a son or a daughter and they’ll know, as you do, as we all know, that they are kin to wolves and winter. They will be no snake or sun but the White Wolf of Dorne.”

Lyanna couldn’t help but laugh and smile and nod.

Brandon’s words sounded almost foolish, the notion of her having a child, but his smile was so warm and genuine that she couldn’t help but imagine it. The world would not know what to do with such a child, she thought, still smiling, hugging Brandon before stepping back a pace and turning to their father.

It was, they all knew, time.

When Brandon moved towards the doors, to enter and take his place with his brothers at the front of the gathered crowd, they were all surprised when Rickard stopped him with a hand to his chest.

“Father?”

Rickard looked at his son, his heir, smiling softly, before looking at Lyanna and then back to Brandon.

“You will give your sister to her betrothed.”

“Father?” Brandon sounded uncertain, confused, and Lyanna blinked.

“You heard me, boy.” Rickard cupped Brandon’s cheek. “You were the first, aside from your mother, to hold her and so you will be the first…the only…to do this. For her. For your mother.”

“Father…” Brandon swallowed thickly, looking from Rickard to Lyanna before his face hardened in determination and he gave a nod of affirmation.

Lyanna blinked, fresh tears forming, and Rickard reached out, pulling her into a gentle, loving hug, before stepping back, the servants reaching for the doors at his nod.

He entered the hall without another word and, even from where they stood, the siblings heard the uncertain murmuring voices.

Brandon drew a deep breath and smiled at her as he offered his arm.

“Not too late to run,” he teased lightly, though his shoulders were tense, uncertain despite his bravado.

Lyanna curled her hand in the bend of his arm, laughing softly.

“Wolves do not run,” she teased back, trying to steady her racing heart as she heard the soft music begin to play.

Brandon laughed and his smile was, she thought, bright enough to rival the sun. He waited for her nod before, together, they took that first step forward.

Lyanna entered the great hall with her head held high, refusing to show any sort of fear or doubt or shame. She was, as Brandon had reminded as though she would ever forget, a Stark and Starks were as strong as winter. Stronger even. That did not mean she did not grip her brother’s arm a little tighter at the sight before her. The hall was warm and light and crowded. Her father stood at the front of the crowd, seemingly so far away, with Ned and Benjen and the Royals. And at the head of the hall, waiting with the Septon was Oberyn.

Oberyn who was dressed in a fine red tunic with golden hems, a golden cloak emblazoned with the sigil of House Martell hanging from his shoulders to give him a regal appearance. His dark hair combed and braided back, making his dark, nearly black eyes stand out even more. The stubble that had graced his cheeks mere hours ago was shaved away, leaving his face bare and smooth, leaving him looking younger and making it almost easy to forget that he was nearly a decade her senior.

He met her gaze as she approached and, for a moment, she thought she saw something other than resignation in his dark gaze. If he was surprised to find Brandon leading her to him he did not show it.

When they finally reached him, Brandon lingered a moment, brushing a soft kiss to her cheek before turning to Oberyn, clasping the man’s hand before leaning in to hiss in his ear.

“If you do anything to hurt her they’ll never find a piece of you bigger than a fist.”

Lyanna bit her lip to keep from saying anything or laughing.

Oberyn hardly looked upset or put off by Brandon’s words, merely gave her brother a knowing grin and nod of understanding. Brandon studied him a heartbeat longer before nodding and stepping back, moving to stand with Rickard and his brothers.

Lyanna stood there, facing Oberyn, trying hard to calm the pounding of her heart, and she nearly jumped out of her skin when the Septon suddenly spoke.

“You may now cloak the bride and bring her under your protection.”

Lyanna felt her hands tremble as Oberyn reached out, slowly, carefully, drawing the black cloak from her shoulders. He smiled, just slightly, barely noticeable if not for their close proximity, as he felt the weight of it, saw the style of it, handing it off to a waiting servant, a man she recognized as his squire from Harrenhal, before drawing his own cloak off and draping it about her shoulders.

She closed her eyes as they turned to stand, side by side, facing the Septon, only opening them again when Oberyn took her hand in his.

“Your Graces,” the Septon said with a respectful bow of his head to Rhaegar and Elia. “Lords and Ladies, we stand here in the sight of gods and men to witness the union of man and wife. One flesh. One heart. One soul. Now and forever.”

The Septon took a ribbon of simple white cloth, meant to symbolize the purity and binding of their union, and wrapped it around their clasped hands, tying it in a knot as he spoke.

“In the sight of the Seven, I hereby seal these two souls, binding them as one, for eternity. Look upon each other and say the words.”

Lyanna drew a low, deep breath as she and Oberyn faced one another. The Dornishman’s expression betrayed nothing of his true feelings as they spoke in unison.

“Father, Smith, Warrior, Mother, Maiden, Crone, Stranger.”

“I am hers…”

“I am his…”

“She is mine…”

“He is mine…”

“From this day until the end of my days.”

They turned as the Septon declared them to be wed and faced the crowd as cheers and applauds rang out.

And, with a simple set of words and a ridiculous little ribbon, Lyanna was no longer Lyanna Stark.

She was Lyanna Martell, a Princess of Dorne.

**__**

**_oOoOoOo_ **

The feast to celebrate the wedding was, as far as Lyanna was concerned, overly extravagant. 

The great hall was warm and lively, people talking, eating, drinking and celebrating a marriage that neither of the newlyweds wanted. There was music and dancing and it really should have been quite enjoyable yet she sat at the head table, next to her new husband, and felt as though it was all meant for someone else. It was a far cry from the feast she would have chosen or planned. She would have done things so much simpler. Less pomp and flare. And there would have been fewer nobles, fewer people who were all but complete strangers, no matter how traditional it may have been for them to be present.

And she most certainly would not have let Ned convince their father that it was perfectly acceptable for Robert to attend.

Her gaze slid across the room to where Robert was sitting, half drunk already and lightly groping one of the serving girls. Ned, bless his foolish heart, was doing his best to keep his friend under control or, at the very least, from making a scene and drawing Rickard’s attention. She still was not certain what her father had been thinking, agreeing to Ned’s request about Robert, but she also was not about to ask. It no longer mattered in the grand scheme of things.

She had just started to drum her fingers on the arm of her chair, nearly bored to tears, when, thank the gods, Benjen appeared at her elbow, grin on his face and that familiar, mischievous twinkle in his eyes.

“I came to steal a dance,” Benjen said as he took Lyanna’s hand, his gaze darting Oberyn. “That is if your husband don’t mind?”

Oberyn grinned at Benjen, clearly amused by his new brother-by-law’s antics, and gave a slight nod, sipping from his glass of wine. Lyanna rolled her eyes and rose from her chair, letting Benjen all but drag her to the dance floor. He must have had it planned, or else his timing was impeccable, because they no more reached the open floor when the musicians began playing a jaunty tune that had Lyanna laughing as Benjen immediately pulled her into the steps of the dance, one their nanny had taught them when they had been little.

It was easy, in those minutes dancing with her little brother, to forget that, in just a few days time, she would be leaving Winterfell, leaving her family, for Dorne.

As Benjen hugged her close, spinning her in a wide circle one final time, the music changed, slowing down, become softer, something almost romantic, and Lyanna started to step back towards the head table when a hand touched her arm, cupping her elbow and holding her in place.

“Perhaps…” A grunted hiccup. “Perhaps…I could have…a…” Another hiccup, or rather more of a burp. “A dance as well?”

She stiffened at the undeniable sound of Robert’s voice.

Turning, she looked at his face, flushed from the wine and ale he had been drinking for perhaps the better part of the day, and she immediately wanted to refuse. He was drunker than she had originally thought. But, she knew, saying telling him no could well lead to a scene that her father would then have to deal with and, not wishing to inflict such a headache on him, she forced a smile and gave a slight not. Benjen lingered a moment before he stepped aside, letting Robert take his place.

As the Storm Lord pulled her into his arms, much closer than was strictly appropriate given she was now married, she found her nose wrinkling at the mixed smell of alcohol and perfume wafting from the man. It seemed he had found more than one way to drown his sorrows. Trying to ignore both smells, she allowed Robert to lead their dance, sloppy as it was given his state, and glanced, several times, towards the head table. Towards Oberyn.

She was surprised to find the man watching them over the rim of his glass, eyes hard and face unreadable. For a moment it was easy to think he looked angry. But then she thought of what had transpired that morning between her and Robert, the aggressive turn it had taken, and wondered if Oberyn was simply watching Robert, concerned the man might do something stupid given how much he had drunk throughout the day. When Robert suddenly spun her, she managed to catch sight of Ser Lewyn, standing tensely near the table where the Royals sat, also watching closely.

When Robert’s hand, which had been resting appropriately at the small of her back, drifted lower, Lyanna jerked back, nearly pulling out of his hold all together.

“Stop,” she hissed under her breath, hoping Robert, even drunk as he was, would listen. “I am _married_ now. You take liberties you’ve already been warned about.”

Robert snorted, and burped, a fresh wave of his breath making Lyanna gag slightly, but his hand ceased its wandering, resting lightly on her hip as he stared at her with slightly glazed eyes.

“Were that the…the…Seven were kinder, today would…would have been…our…” He burped again and Lyanna once more nearly jerked herself away from him, disgusted by the smell and the state of him. “Our wedding.”

“The gods,” she pointed out, realizing that they had stopped dancing and were now just standing there. “Be they the Old or the Seven, are never kind.”

She knew that all too well.

If the gods were kind than this wedding would never have happened. Hells, if they were kind, she would never have had to marry at all.

Robert grunted, shaking his head, grip tightening on her just a fraction.

“They aren’t…” He agreed groggily, burping again. “This…This won’t make…won’t make you happy, Lya.”

She frowned.

“What won’t?”

Robert nodded his head almost absently towards the head table. Towards Oberyn.

“Him. Being married to him.”

“You don’t know that.”

“Do…so…” He swayed slightly and for a moment she worried he was about to collapse but he quickly righted himself with a sharp jerk. “We’d have…been…happy together…”

“You don’t know that either,” she said firmly, truthfully, drawing a step away from him. “We could have hated one another. We could have been horrible together. This morning alone showed that.”

He shook his head, burping again.

“I know we…we would have been…happy…I know because…because…I love…you.”

“No, you don’t,” her voice was sharper than she had meant it to be and his gaze narrowed unexpectedly. “You love who you think I am. Who you want me to be. Not me. Not the real me.”

Robert grip on her hand suddenly tightened, his eyes clouding with barely concealed fury, and she winced at both the sharp bite of pain and her own foolishness for not minding her tongue. Whatever Robert had meant to say never passed his lips as a rich, warm voice cut him off.

“Pardon, Lord Baratheon, but I was hoping to share a dance with my sister-by-law.”

Both Lyanna and Robert looked to find Rhaegar standing next to them, smiling softly, watching Robert with bright, lilac eyes.

Lyanna smiled immediately, thanking the gods, Old and New, that it was Rhaegar who had interrupted them. Robert might have snapped at any other man, even one of her brothers, but not the Crown Prince. Even drunk, or mostly drunk, Robert had enough presence of mind to watch what he said. Before Robert could respond, Lyanna pulled away from him, smiling as she extended her hand to Rhaegar.

“Of course, Your Highness.”

She continued to smile as Rhaegar led her a short distance away, their dance beginning as the music changed. A soft yet jaunty tune. Simple and well known to nobles and smallfolk and it helped put Lyanna at ease. It also helped that Rhaegar kept a respectful distance between them and that his hands remained in very appropriate places.

“If you will pardon my saying, Princess Lyanna,” Rhaegar said softly, taking care not to be overheard by those dancing around them and she twitched at being called _Princess_. It would take time to become accustomed to her new title. “But it was a mistake, on your father’s part, letting Lord Baratheon attend today.”

“You will not hear me argue.” She blinked, realizing that her tone and words could easily be taken the wrong way. “I mean…”

Rhaegar shook his head with a smile.

“You’ll not hear a chastisement from me for speaking honestly. I do believe you will thrive in Dorne.”

Lyanna frowned a touch.

“You do? Why?”

“Women have more rights in Dorne. They are not treated as property or lesser simply for being women.” He gave a small smile. “I believe a headstrong, young Northern woman will certainly thrive and grow in such a place. Even married to Oberyn.”

His tone when he mentioned Oberyn was a little sharper.

“You think ill of him, Your Highness?”

Rhaegar shook his head.

“Oberyn is, as my wife often tells me, who he is.” He sighed softly. “He is not, I find, an easy man to know, or in my case like, but I do know, and fully believe, he will never treat you poorly. Not intentionally. He is not a cruel man.”

Lyanna gave a nod just as the music faded away, the song ending and the musicians taking a well deserved break, and Rhaegar gave her a delicate smile as he lead her back to the head table, giving Oberyn a nod before stepping away, no doubt to return to his wife.

As Lyanna took her seat she glanced over at Oberyn.

His body language was more relaxed than it had been during her dance with Robert, and he was sipping his wine, studying the crowd and, seemingly, making a point not to look at her. With a deep breath she reached for her wine glass just as someone shouted out from the back of the hall.

“I believe it’s time for the bedding ceremony!”


	8. Chapter 8

_“I believe it’s time for the bedding ceremony!”_

The words continued to ring though Lyanna’s head as she sat, stiff and uncertain, heart hammering in her ears.

She hadn’t given any thought to the bedding ceremony. It was not a traditional often upheld in the North as it had come to Westeros with the Andals and the Faith of the Seven. It was something she, and many in the North, considered cruel and unnecessary. A woman was nervous enough on her wedding day so why in the name of any gods would it be seen as acceptable to subject her to such a thing.

She could see people, members of the Royal party, those who had ventured North to be able to say they had witnessed the marriage of the infamous Red Viper of Dorne, laughing and smiling, clearly thinking it a grand idea that the bedding ceremony take place. But she also saw the Northerners, her brothers included, who looked suddenly uncomfortable. Perhaps most surprisingly was that Rhaegar looked as uncomfortable as her brothers. The Crown Prince looked like he wanted to speak out against it but before he could find his voice another, richly accented and certainly Dornish silenced everything in the hall.

“There will be no bedding ceremony.”

Oberyn placed his glass on the table, forcefully as the table rattled slightly, everyone turning to look at the Dornish Prince, who was glaring out at those gathered, his dark gaze surprisingly cold, as though silently daring any of them to defy him.

“Come now,” the voice belonged, unfortunately, to Robert, who took a staggering step towards the head table and Lyanna did not care what anyone said, or who she insulted in the process, she would _not_ permit her former betrothed to touch her should the begging ceremony take place despite what Oberyn said. “It…It is tradition. And…And traditions must…”

“Perhaps you did not hear me clearly, Lord Robert,” Oberyn snarled as he slowly stood, like a snake coiling in the grass, his gaze fixed firmly on Robert. “There will be _no bedding ceremony_.”

Lyanna found herself all but holding her breath, looking from Oberyn to Robert, finding Robert’s blue eyes blazing with rage. He was not accustomed to being told no. It was the surest way to infuriate him and she, like the others who knew him, waited for the fallout of that rage even as he snorted like a bull.

“It is a…”

“It is not a Dornish tradition.” Oberyn firmly held his ground, refusing to be swayed and Lyanna remembered what Rhaegar had said about Oberyn being a rare soul. She found she was quite thankful for that now. “Nor, I’ve been given to understand from my brothers-by-law, is it a Northern tradition.” Brandon was nodding his head, glaring daggers at Robert, no doubt ready to step in should he have to. “Therefore, there will be no bedding ceremony.”

“Prince Oberyn, the begging ceremony is…” the Septon, standing just off to the side, started to interject but Oberyn revealed a bit of Dornish temper when he cut the man off.

“This gods be damned ceremony is not happening!” His voice had risen slightly in volume and his hands clenched at his sides and the glare that swept over the room had people shifting nervously. “If any of you think I am subjecting my…wife…to it than you will find yourselves quite disappointed.”

Everyone stood silent, unmoving, and Oberyn took that as their acceptance of his decree because he turned to his sister.

“Elia,” his voice was softer as he addressed his sister, his gaze too. “If you and Lady Ashara would kindly attend to my wife I will join you in the wedding chamber shortly.”

Elia rose from her chair with a nod, calmly walking to the head table, Lady Ashara, who had been standing with Ned, following close behind her. Lyanna stood as Elia reached her, not surprised when her new sister-by-law took her by the hand, slowly leading her from the hall. Lyanna could hear people murmuring as the doors closed behind them and she only relaxed once they were halfway down the hall.

“I should have guessed something like this would happen,” Elia said softly, letting go of Lyanna’s hand only to wrap an arm around her, pulling her close. “My brother was positively furious after my own wedding when I told him of the bedding ceremony.”

“He said…” Lyanna cleared her throat. “He said it wasn’t practiced in Dorne.”

“It is not. And he did not linger long enough at my own wedding to witness it performed on me.” Elia shook her head. “Which, I suppose, only added to his fury about my marriage when he later learned of it.”

“It’s a horrid tradition,” Lyanna found herself saying, venom dripping from her words. “It’s terrifying enough, getting married, but to add such a thing, letting men grope and strip a bride and carry her to her marriage bed…it’s…it’s almost barbaric and should have been done away with long ago.”

Elia’s smile widened a touch.

“You and Oberyn share something in common already. That is quite promising.”

Lyanna couldn’t help but laugh at that, at Elia’s honesty, even Ashara laughed, as they entered the room that had been set up as the wedding chamber. The room was warm, a fire having been started some time ago, and had purposely been set up for the newly married couple. A quick glance at the bed and Lyanna felt some of her nerve start to slip. This was meant to be the room in which she would cease to be a child. Cease to be a virgin. Something must have shown on her face because Elia quickly turned her so her back was to the bed, the Princess taking her hands in her own.

“It is alright to be afraid,” Elia spoke softly. “I was absolutely terrified on my wedding night and Ashara was nervous when she gave up her maidenhead.”

Lyanna blinked and looked at Ashara, who snorted as she stepped forward, carefully beginning to unlace her dress, the Dornishwoman’s purple eyes sparkling.

“I was nervous,” Ashara said. “Only because I knew the man could never take me as his wife if our tryst was ever discovered.” Ashara smiled when Lyanna glanced over her shoulder at her. “I was little older than you, Princess. And he…well…he was much older. Old enough to perhaps know better but he was gentle and sweet to me. I do not regret my decision.”

“You loved him,” Lyanna said, unable to help but smile, realizing the sound in Ashara’s voice was affection.

“I love him still,” she said as Elia stepped aside to fetch a nightgown for Lyanna from the chest in the corner as Ashara helped her out of the wedding gown. “I suppose a part of me will always love him. Even if he is not free to love me in return.”

Lyanna drew the nightgown on, the fabric soft and light, before Elia reached up and carefully undid her braid, mindfully setting the hair clip on a nearby table. Elia carefully loosened Lyanna’s hair, brushing it back from her face and smiling tenderly at her.

“Everything will be alright,” the Princess assured as Ashara moved to stand by the door. “Oberyn…he will be as gentle as he can be. He’ll not purposely hurt you but…there will be some pain and discomfort no matter how gentle he is.”

Lyanna gave a nod.

“I do recall some of my mother’s teachings on…on this matter,” Lyanna said, trying to sound braver than she felt, because she had to be brave, to be strong, but Elia did not fall for her act.

Elia pulled her into a hug, warm and tender and Lyanna leaned into the embrace before the Princess drew back, pressing a kiss to her cheek and giving her hands a delicate squeeze.

“You will be just fine.” Another reassuring squeeze. “I shall see you in the morning, Lyanna.”

Lyanna nodded again and watched as Elia and Ashara left, the door closing quietly behind them, before she turned, looking once more around the room as she drew a deep breath, attempting to calm the once more rapid pace of her heart.

She walked across the room until she stood by the foot of the bed, reaching out to touch the blankets and the furs, knowing that it was where she would…

She shook her head, drawing another deep breath, refusing to let herself become more nervous and afraid than she already was. She had just started to turn, thinking to get a drink from the pitcher on the table only to still when she heard the footsteps outside the door.

**_oOoOoOo_ **

Oberyn muttered under his breath as he stalked down the hallway towards the wedding chamber.

He was nearly there when he met Elia and Ashara, the pair heading back towards the hall where the other guests were still lingering. He thought to slip by them, to avoid his sister until the morning, but the Seven decided that was not possible as Elia caught his arm when he tried to pass, pulling him to a stop as her eyes, dark as his own, stared up at him, fixing firmly on his split lip.

“What in the name of the gods did you do now,” she hissed at him, reaching up with her free hand to grasp at his chin so he could not pull away, thumb pressing just below his lip, making him hiss at the bite of pain.

He tried to tug away, but the look she wore, so very much like that of their late mother, had him stilling.

He huffed and let out a long sigh through his nose.

“I thought it best to have a little chat with the Storm Lord. He was the one who chose to turn simple conversation to blows.

Elia’s gaze narrowed and she spat a curse in old Rhoynish.

“I told Rhaegar that man would be trouble. First that stunt with the bedding ceremony and now this.” She shook her head. “By the Seven, I thought the man would at least have been minded better by Lyanna’s brother.”

She spoke of the man like one might speak of an unruly child, needing to be watched by an elder for fear of what they might otherwise do.

“Mother did always say idiots did things in three so counting him striking the girl this morning I’m fairly confident she was correct in that regard.”

Elia went still. An eerie sort of stillness that rarely graced her delicate frame.

“What,” she asked quietly. “Are you talking about?”

Oberyn realized, too late by far, his mistake and he wondered what his odds were to just walk away and deny his sister an explanation. Judging from the expression on her face not good. Sighing, he shook his head.

“It was handled, sister. By our uncle and myself. I’m sure my new wife needs no further champions.”

“Does Lord Rickard know of Baratheon striking his daughter? Does Lord Brandon or Lord Eddard?”

Oberyn said nothing.

He did not have to.

Elia could read him like a book. She always could. And the string of old Rhoynish curses that passed her lips would have made even a seasoned sailor blush.

“Elia,” Oberyn started but Elia held her hand up to silence him.

Her expression hardened, reminding him, not for the first time in their lives, of their mother.

“Go to your wife.” 

“Elia…”

“Go,” she said firmly. “To your wife, Oberyn.” She reached up, cupping his cheek in a gentle manner that did not seem to fit with the fierce look on her face. “And, if you’ve any sense at all, at least be kind to her.”

Oberyn hesitated a moment longer, uncertain if it was truly wise to leave Elia to whatever devices were currently spinning in her mind, but, in the end, did as he was bid and continued on his way to his waiting wife.

Elia watched as her brother disappeared around the corner, off to find Lyanna in their wedding chamber, silently praying he at least heeded her words about being kind, before drawing a deep breath, trying to calm the rage she felt. It was not often she was moved to such strong anger but the thought of a man boorish and brutish as Robert Baratheon daring to put his hands on someone as iron willed and fierce as her new sister-by-law stoked a fire in her that often lay dormant like a dying ember in winter.

“Elia,” Ashara spoke quietly, but knowingly, and her beautiful violet gaze was worried.

Elia did not respond to her friend, merely swept down the hall, Ashara hurrying along behind her.

The doors of the great hall were wide open, people still crowded the hall but the mood had certainly changed. Things felt tense, people murmuring and glancing about almost nervously, and, at the center of the hall, Robert, nose bleeding, was leaning against Ned, who was scowling even as Lord Rickard seemed to be doing his best to maintain his temper.

The Princess did not hesitate, did not stop moving, not evening when her husband started towards her, until she was stepping around Robert, pretending not to see Lord Rickard’s somewhat startled look at her unexpected arrival. Robert, drunken oaf of a man, blinked groggily at her through his haze and Elia smiled prettily at him before drawing off and slapping him.

One could have heard a pin drop at the silence that followed.

Robert’s stared at her, wide eyed, cheeks flushed from drink and perhaps his early anger with her brother, and clearly confused, though it was hard to say if her actions were the cause or the amount of alcohol he had consumed throughout the evening.

“That,” Elia snapped, chin tilting upwards, silently daring him to say or do anything. She would gladly give the order to her uncle to do more than bloody the fool’s nose. “Is for you _daring_ to raise your hand against Princess Lyanna this morning.”

She purposely used Lyanna’s new title, making it clear that, even before the wedding, Lyanna had been viewed as a Princess of Dorne, as a member of House Martell, and as such the transgression against her would not go ignored. Even if Lewyn and Oberyn had handled the situation themselves, even if Lyanna would never ask this of her, Elia was not going to let it be swept under the rug to be ignored and forgotten. Lyanna was Oberyn’s wife now, that made her Elia’s sister, and a daughter of Dorne _always_ protected her family.

“ _He what?_ ” 

The deep rolling voice belonged to Brandon Stark, who emerged through the crowd like a wolf in the forest, silent and deadly, his eyes like shards of sea ice. And for a moment a chill rolled down Elia’s spine at how the young man looked at Robert. His expression reminded her of Oberyn in a fury. A brother’s rage.

“Brandon,” Lord Rickard’s voice was calm but there was an edge to it, a warning, his own pale gaze fixed on Robert.

Brandon stilled but it was a predatory stillness, the young man’s brash temper was well known in the North, one day might even rival Oberyn, but he obeyed his father’s silent command.

“Eddard,” Lord Rickard still sounded calm but Ned, now standing stiffly, looking from Robert to his father. “Ensure Lord Robert reaches his chambers and that, come the morning, he is fit to hold a conversation. I will have words with him then about his recent… _behaviour_.”

Ned slowly nodded, looking somewhat stricken and no doubt torn between family loyalty and the brotherly love he had for Robert and, for the briefest of moments, Elia felt a sting of sympathy for him but, judging from the way his brother and father watched as he carefully walked Robert from the hall, he would have much bigger worries come morning.

Lord Rickard, once his son and the drunken oaf of a Storm Lord were gone, quickly reassured the remaining guests and called for more ale and for the musicians to play something jaunting to try and improve the mood. It took a few minutes but, thankfully, those gathered relaxed and the atmosphere improved.

Elia was not surprised when, once his duties as host had been properly tended to, Lord Rickard turned to her.

“Princess Elia,” he gave a respectful bow and Elia smiled even as she noticed Brandon slip away through the crowd, silent as he had come, and knew the young man was likely going after Ned and Robert. “I…”

“My apologies, Lord Rickard,” Elia gently cut the man off, sounding much more diplomatic than she actually felt. “I should have conducted myself better but when I learned of what transpired this morning I am sorry to say that I allowed my anger to get the best of me. Again, I do apologize for causing such an unnecessary scene.”

“Hardly unnecessary, Princess,” Lord Rickard replied, his tone forcibly calm but his eyes betrayed him. Betrayed his fury and his father’s protective instincts. “You have my deep gratitude for bringing this…unfortunate incident to my attention.” He drew a deep breath. “I just wish my daughter had been the one to bring it to light.”

“She had much on her mind today,” Elia pointed out as Rhaegar stepped up to her side, causing Lord Rickard to give a respectful bow to the Crown Prince with a quietly murmured _Your Highness_. “And I’m sure she did not wish to cause anyone any upset.”

“Whatever the case, Princess, you still have my gratitude.” Lord Rickard gave the faintest smile and Elia could see where his sons got their looks. “If you will excuse me, Highnesses, I should tend to my guests and ensure my eldest does not go looking for Lord Robert.”

Elia and Rhaegar both nodded and Elia watched Lord Rickard walk away even as her husband wrapped an arm around her waist, drawing her close to his side.

“That was dramatic.” 

Rhaegar smiled as he pressed a quick kiss to her hair, leading her back towards the doors, thinking perhaps they had had enough excitement for one evening. Elia hummed thoughtfully, laying her hand over his where it rested against her hip.

“I’ve never had a sister before,” Elia pointed out. “I feel that perhaps it’s my duty from time to time to, as you said, be dramatic.”

Rhaegar’s smile widened a touch.

“Remind me, beloved, never to cross you.”

That made Elia chuckle and she leaned into her husband, thankful, as she was everyday, that, though theirs had been an arranged union, they had grown so close and to love one another.

She just prayed Oberyn and Lyanna were as lucky.


	9. Chapter 9

After parting ways with his sister, whom he was certain was now off to show the world why she would, in time, make an excellent Queen of Westeros, Oberyn tried to pretend he did not take his time making his way to the wedding chamber. The walk took much less time than he thought it would and, as he stood before the door, he found himself wondering just what awaited him on the other side.

Was it the strong, iron-willed woman who had faced down three squires all for the sake of a friend? Or was it a simpering, frightened child in need of coddling?

He knew which he would prefer and he also knew which was more likely to be waiting.

For all the strength and courage a woman might show to the world when it came to her first time with a man she quickly became a quivering, frightened little rabbit.

_Damn Doran for forcing this on me, _he thought savagely, inhaling deeply and sighing before he entered the chamber.__

__He was greeted by warmth, the room clearly having been well tended to during the ceremony and feast, and it nearly reminded him of the warmth of Dorne. Something, he was loath to admit, he had been greatly missing during his brief time in the North._ _

__He had expected to find Lyanna by the window or perhaps the fireplace, nervous and jittering, waiting for him only to be surprised to find her standing by the foot of the bed, her gaze fixed on him._ _

__She was wearing a simple nightgown, her dark hair unwoven from its braid to hang loose and curling around her pale face. Her eyes, those sharp grey eyes like chips of ice in fading sunlight, watched him as keenly as a cornered wolf watched a hunter and, though he saw a sliver of fear in them, he saw the determination. Her determination. He saw her strength and courage. The same he had seen at the tourney. She held her ground when any other in place would have submitted. Any ground he gained with his new bride tonight would have to be fought for. Would have to be earned._ _

__It was a pleasant surprise given what he had been expecting from her._ _

__“Wife.”_ _

__He nearly smiled when she snorted and rolled her eyes at him._ _

__“Is that to be it then?” Her tone was waspish and that did make him smile. “Am I to call you _Husband_ rather than your name like a fool?”_ _

__Oberyn shrugged as he unbuckled his belt, tossing it onto one of the chairs by the small table. He couldn’t help but notice the hairpin she had been wearing rested on that same table. It glinted at him in the flicker light and he wondered if she had worn it to please him or simply because his uncle had gifted it to her. He suspected it was the latter._ _

__“You may call me whatever best pleases you, I suppose.”_ _

__Lyanna made a soft sound but did not comment on that, merely watched as he sat, tugging his boots off, her gaze tracking his movements carefully even as he hands clenched and unclenched at her sides. When he stood again he approached her. Slowly. Like one might a timid animal. He paused only a few steps from her, close enough to touch but still giving an air of distance, regarding her in silence for a moment before reaching up and pushing her hair back, letting his fingers tangle in the dark tresses and using his grasp to tip her head back ever so slightly._ _

__“You understand that we are expected to consummate this marriage, yes?”_ _

__She gave a faint nod, her gaze never leaving his, and still that courage shone in the grey depths of her gaze._ _

__“I think it best to know that under ordinary circumstances I would not take you to my bed.” He did not want any misunderstanding or doubt between them. “You are…young…for my taste.”_ _

__She blinked up at him. Gaze seemingly searching him for something._ _

__“At least you are honest,” she said, tone cool but not hurt. “It’s more than I can say for most men.”_ _

__“Most men would have forced you to that bed whether you were willing or not and they’d have called it _duty_ and cared not for your thoughts or comfort.”_ _

__“And you’re saying that is not the case with you? That _you_ care?”_ _

__Oberyn understood then what she was searching for._ _

__She wanted to know if she could expect better from him than she could have from another man. She wanted to know if he was, in this at least, a good man._ _

__He leaned down towards her._ _

__“I’m saying,” he murmured, breathe fanning over her face as his dark eyes seemed to darken further. “That I will not force you. That I will never take from you your choice. In this or anything else.”_ _

__He was surprised when Lynna suddenly leaned up, balancing carefully on her toes, pressing a kiss to his lips. It was obvious she had little or no experience, making him wonder if their kiss at Harrenhal had perhaps been her first true kiss, but she was clearly making a statement. Inexperienced or not, she would not be a passive, frightened participant in this. And he found, despite his numerous and vocal protests over not wanting to take a girl little more than a child to his bed, there was a certain thrill to know he would be her first. A thrill that he could, at the least, make it memorable and good for her. A pleasant experience rather than whatever she might have had at the hands of another._ _

__She drew back slightly, just as his hands curled against her hips, and he started to lean in closer, wanting to kiss her again, wanting to do more than kiss her, but held himself back, not wanting to push. He was had meant his words. He would not force her into anything if she was not ready for it. But the way she looked at him, that stunning grey gaze no longer searching but heated, told him he did not have to worry about her feeling forced._ _

__With a low sound he closed the distance between them, taking her lips in a passionate, somewhat demanding, kiss. She made a soft sound, lips parting ever-so-slightly, and he took the chance to deepen the kiss, knowing the likelihood of her ever being kissed in such a way were slim and he delighted in the way she shivered and how, with a bit of coaxing touches, she engaged his tongue with her own. She proved a quick study, or perhaps she was merely a natural, but it sent another wave of desire through him. And when her hands tangled in his hair, tugging lightly, testing what she was permitted to do, he groaned low in his chest and his hands slid a little lower, grip tightening a touch, before he lifted her from her feet._ _

__Lyanna let out a startled sound, breaking the kiss, her legs reflexively wrapping around Oberyn’s waist to try and steady herself as he stepped towards the bed. She gasped when he laid her down, settling easily over her, those bright dark eyes shining down at her with a heat she did not recognize but knew had to be desire. She ran her fingers through his hair, tugging gently at a stray curl behind his ear, and the sound he made caused her heart to race faster._ _

__Staring down at Lyanna, Oberyn found he had to admit, little more than a child or not, she was very lovely and he could see why Baratheon had coveted her so strongly. It stirred something, another smug satisfaction, to know that he was the one who got to be her first. And that, he knew, would drive Robert Baratheon mad._ _

__With a small grin, barely noticeable, he curled his hands in the fabric of her nightgown and began to draw it upwards. He did it slowly, giving her time to object, but was surprised when she lifted her hips, reaching down to tug the bunched fabric upwards, baring her lower body. He was surprised further when she pushed herself up enough for him to draw the nightgown up over her head, her dark hair spilling back down around her face and curling against pale skin, drawing his gaze to her body._ _

__She was a slender thing, more so that he had expected, but a pleasant flush turned pale flesh a rosy pink and he felt a shiver roll down his spine as he sat up on his knees, grabbing the hem of his own tunic and yanking it up and off his body, tossing it and her nightgown somewhere off the bed behind him, watching the way that beautiful grey gaze dropped to his torso. He could see in her eyes, as he had seen in many women’s eyes, that she was pleased by what she saw. Experienced or not that was something no one, man or woman, could hide. And if it stroked his ego to know she at the very least found him physically attractive then only he had to know that. Another shiver rolled through him when she tentatively brushed her fingers over his chest._ _

__He smiled and leaned in to kiss her again, taking pleasure in the soft sound she made and was pleased when her tongue brushed against his lower lip. Kissing her was as easy as breathing and, it seemed, helped her grow bolder for her hands, slowly, gently, began to run over his skin, hesitant at first but growing with confidence the longer they kissed. When her fingers danced over the scar on his side, a questioning sound dropping from her lips to his, he drew back a touch, breathing heavily and giving her a small grin._ _

__“A gift from Lord Yronwood,” he answered the unspoken question as her fingers continued to dance across the raised and puckered flesh._ _

__Lyanna let out a soft sound._ _

__“I know of that duel.”_ _

__Of course she did. All of Westeros had heard of that duel. It had been the duel that had earned him the title of _Red Viper_._ _

__Without another word on the matter, Oberyn leaned back down, kissing her for a moment before trailing kisses down her neck and across her collarbone, listening to her quiet gasps and pleased sounds, feeling her body arch beneath him just as he wrapped his mouth around a pert little nipple. She jerked as though struck, pushing against him, and he hummed before sucking lightly, teasing her, wanting to show her pleasures another might not consider for her first night._ _

__Her body was not yet that of a grown woman and he doubted she would ever be as fully curved as some women he had known but the hint of the grown beauty she would become was still there and she responded all the same._ _

__He ran his hands down her sides and, as he released her nipple, flicking his tongue over it, felt her quiver, her hands tangling once more in his hair, trying to pull him back to her and he smirked. He ducked back down, not to her breast, but to kiss her. It earned him a low, somewhat unhappy sound, but as he managed to rid himself of his pants and small clothes he knew it would not matter in a few minutes._ _

__He was already hard and he knew the moment Lyanna noticed because he felt his cock brush lightly against her thigh and she stiffened ever so slightly beneath him. A soft sound slipped from her mouth and into his, causing him to break the kiss to look down at her, finding the hint of wariness in her sharp grey eyes, and he couldn’t help but press another soft, quick kiss to her lips._ _

__“It’s alright, just relax,” he whispered as soothingly as he could, one hand slipping down between their bodies, fingers gliding over her stomach. “It’s alright.”_ _

__Lyanna watched him, tension running through her, and she tried to force herself to relax, quivering as his hand slid lower and lower until, after what felt like forever, his fingers danced lightly, almost teasingly, over that spot between her legs. She let out a sound, not a cry but more like a squeak, as he rubbed between the wet folds and her legs jerked with the reflex to snap shut. She fought that reflex, knowing if she said the word Oberyn would stop, would give her all the time she needed, but she also knew if she hesitated now she might not let him continue and she already knew, just as he had said, that this marriage was expected to be consummated._ _

__She murmured when he pressed a jaw, turning her head to try and kiss him, lips just barely brushing the corner of his mouth as he sank a finger into her._ _

__She gasped, jerking her mouth away from his, the sensation new and foreign and her body shifted, pressing closer and trying to pull away all at the same time. She blinked, repeatedly, whining softly, clutching at his arm with one hand, the other flying up to grab hold of his shoulder and she saw an odd look in his eyes. She couldn’t name it but, as he pressed his finger a little deeper, she found he did not care because the feeling of his finger inside her was starting to leave her warm and a strange tingling sensation spreading throughout her lower body._ _

__Oberyn watched Lyanna as he moved his finger, watched her discomfort and surprise fade, giving way to a sort of awed pleasure, and he smirked slightly. Continuing to watch her face, to watch the pleasure as it bloomed across her features, he pressed his thumb to that little pearl just above her dripping core to give her a jolt of pleasure. He was rewarded by a sharp cry, nails biting into his skin, and her hips rocking instinctively into his touch._ _

__“I…I…” Lyanna’s voice was raspy and her legs quivered as he pressed a second finger into her._ _

__“Just feel,” he purred, leaning down and kissing her neck, mouthing up over her jaw. “Just feel, Lya.”_ _

__Lyanna let out a throaty sound and kept rocking into his touch, feeling a tightening in the center of her being and her eyes squeezed shut as she gasped and panted and then it felt like everything exploded._ _

__Her cry was sharp, her body clenching and tightening around Oberyn’s fingers, her pleasure written clear as day on her face. He lifted his head to watch that, to watch how she reacted to what was, clearly, her first orgasm. He watched how she arched and pressed against his hand. Without waiting longer than a heartbeat, he withdrew his fingers and carefully guided her legs over his hips, aligning the head of his cock with her soaked core. Leaning down, he gave her a gentle kiss as he pressed into her._ _

__He felt her start to tense, a natural reaction, but paid it little mind. Instead, he drew a deep breath and, knowing it was the best choice, sheathed himself completely inside her with a single thrust before holding completely still, knowing from past experience that she would need some time to adjust to this new, foreign sensation._ _

__The cry that fell from her lips, the tears dotting her lashes, immediately had him pressing dozens of soft kisses to her lips, to her cheeks, his hands running up and down her sides, across her hips and down her thighs, seeking to sooth her. He waited until her breathing, which had been rapid, more of a pant than actual inhale of breath, evened out, waited for her fingers to relinquish their fierce, biting grip on him, waited for her to be ready before he began to move._ _

__His movements were slow, shallow, being as gentle as he could be. She made a low sound, less pained and more pleased, and he smiled against her hair as her legs, still hitched around his hips, tightened and her hips rocked upwards. He took this, and the way she tangled a hand in his hair, her lips brushing over the skin of his shoulder, as a sign that she was ready for more. Pressing a quick, dominate, kiss to her lips he began to move as he would with any other woman, pulling nearly all the way out before slamming his cock back into her. She gasped, pleasure sparking through her, nails racking down his back, digging in just below his shoulder blade, her legs tightening further around his waist, unconsciously pulling him closer._ _

__He groaned at the feel of her. Tight and wet and hot. Her inner walls fluttered around him, making each thrust feel better than the last._ _

__Lyanna arched her neck, lifting up to bite gently at his neck, leaving a line of red marks down to his shoulder, where she sucked a purple mark between the half-moon teeth marks. _She-wolf indeed,_ he thought as he continued to thrust into her, harder and faster, feeling the familiar tingle at the base of his spine, the tightening sensation in his gut and knew he was growing close. With a low moan he supported himself with one hand while reaching down between them, his fingers rubbing over her little bud, not surprised when she cried out, body going taut like a bowstring, back arching, hips rocking against him._ _

__"Oberyn..." Her voice hoarse, a broken sob of pleasure, caught up in a storm that she had never experienced before. "I...I...please I..."_ _

__He knew what she was asking for, even if she did not, and he leaned down, kissing her deeply, passionately, fingers never ceasing their ministration on her most intimate of places._ _

__“Howl for me.” Two more thrusts and he twisted his hips and pressed against her, and held. “Howl for me, my beautiful she-wolf.”_ _

__He twisted his hips again and, between one heartbeat and the next, she did, pressing against him, shaking, shattering, her head thrown back as a howl of pleasure tore from her throat and he hissed with her a second later, arching his back, adding a tiny bit of extra pressure, a little more bite to her pleasure, as he found his release, spilling his seed deep inside her._ _

__He held close to her for a moment, enjoying the pleasure washing through him, enjoying how Lyanna clung to him, riding her own pleasure, before slowly, being mindful not to hurt her, withdrawing his softening cock before he collapsed to the bed next to her, panting for breath as she made soft little sounds, her eyes closed and face all aglow with pleasure. He reached up, brushing her hair back, watching her eyes flutter open for a moment. The pleasure was still dancing brightly in those lovely grey depths but there was exhaustion as well and he smiled slightly, carefully maneuvering them until they were resting against the pillows, a blanket drawn up over them._ _

__It didn't take long, after that, for Lyanna to fall asleep, curled up, facing away from Oberyn, breath even and deep. He watched her for a few minutes, taking in her relaxed face, the way her eyelids fluttered as dreams took flight, and he pressed a soft kiss to her hair before he rose and moved away from the bed._ _


	10. Chapter 10

Lyanna woke with sunlight fanning over her face, warming her and rousing her from a dreamless sleep.

Snuffling softly, not quite ready yet to join the waking world, she rolled over, reaching across the bed, expecting to meet another body, Oberyn’s body, only to find the other side of the bed cool and empty. Eyes slowly opening, Lyanna blinked, staring at the space beside her.

Had he even spent the night in the bed with her? Or had he left once certain she was sleeping?

She laid there a while, staring at that empty spot, uncertain of her own feelings. Was it good or ill that her newly wed husband was not abed with her upon the first morning of their union? She was sure that must be an omen of some sort but, she mused, neither she nor Oberyn had wanted this marriage. It was a duty they had agreed to shoulder. It was the price they paid for a foolish moment that, at the time, had meant nothing to either of them.

Sighing, Lyanna slowly rolled back to the edge of the bed, slowly rising, pausing for a moment at the sight of the blood stain on the sheets, before shaking her head and quickly looking away. That stain was nothing more than proof that she was no longer a child. She was a married woman now. And, like waking alone, she could not name the emotions that stirred within her. Shaking her head again, she crossed the room to the chest in the corner, finding clothing neatly folding and waiting within. 

She donned a simple pair of trousers and a dark grey tunic, finding her boots, likely left by a servant sometime the day before, by the fireplace. She tied her hair back in a simple braid, uncaring if there was some way she was expected to act or dress now that she was married. She was still her, no matter that she now bore a new title and House, and she would not pretend to be anything, or anyone, else.

She was still Lyanna, the wild she-wolf daughter of the Warden of the North, and she would show that, and more, to the people of Dorne.

With a deep breath, she left the chamber, knowing the maids or someone would tend to the room, though she would have preferred to burn the sheets and the proof they held that the marriage had indeed been consummated. Another archaic cog in an archaic machine that, in Lyanna’s opinion, the world could very easily do without.

Walking through the hallways of Winterfell, slowly making her way towards the great hall, Lyanna found her thoughts turning to what was now to come.

She would soon leave Winterfell. Possibly for good. For how could she be certain that she would ever see her beloved childhood home again once she left for a land so very far away? A land where she would be the stranger married to a beloved Prince. A stranger who, she could admit to herself at least, had a great deal to learn about Dorne and its people and customs if she had a hope of ever being accepted even just a little bit. She could, and would, still be herself but she also had enough sense to know and accept that there would be expectations now placed upon her and it was best to learn them and how best to adapt to them now rather than bungle something and offer insult to the Dornish people who, now she supposed, were also her people.

Just because she was not happy to be married did not mean she wished to offer insult or humiliation to Oberyn’s family and people. She’d already offered that and more to her own because of rumors and assumed actions. So, no, she would not offer more. She would do her best to avoid more of that.

Reaching the great hall, Lyanna smiled as one of the guards opened one of the doors for her, giving her a slight nod and small smile as she passed.

She paused just inside the hall, taking in the sight of the high table.

Elia sat, dressed regally as always, her darling little girl perched on her lap, picking at the food on the plate before Elia at the table.

It made Lyanna smile. It made her wonder if she had done the same as a child perched in her own mother’s lap. It made her wonder if the late Lady Lyarra had looked at her the way Elia looked at Rhaeneys. Like she had hung the moon and stars in the sky. Like she was everything precious and rare in the world. She liked to believe she had. She wanted to hold on to the belief that her mother had looked at her, seen all the wildness within, and had loved her fiercely. Not in spite of her wildness but because of it.

When Rhaeneys’ dark eyes suddenly swung to her, Lyanna could not help but smile at the little Princess. She supposed, given her marriage to Oberyn, that made the little girl her niece. And she couldn’t quite decide how she felt about that. Being aunt, even if it was only through marriage, to a royal child. Being aunt to the children her brothers might one day have was one thing but this was different. The little girl across from her was not blood to her. Nothing more than pretty words bound them as family. And yet Lyanna felt a sudden, unexplained fierce protectiveness for the girl.

And not, she could admit to herself, only for Rhaeneys.

Elia, though strong in her own way, she had to be in order to survive being Aerys Targaryen’s daughter-by-law, was someone Lyanna knew immediately she would defend no matter the cost.

Drawing a deep breath, Lyanna crossed the hall and took a seat next to Benjen, who sat at one of the lower tables, the high table having been reserved for those of the royal party. Her little brother grinned at her, passing over a plate of bacon and Lyanna bumped his shoulder with her own as she took some food.

“So,” Benjen said after a few minutes and, truly, she was surprised he’d waited so long to begin his teasing. “You’re a Princess now. Am I supposed to call you, _Your Highness_ , when I address you?”

Lyanna snorted, grabbing a goblet and filling it with water.

“If you do I’ll punch you in the nose.”

Benjen’s playful grin widened and he opened his mouth to reply but a different voice settled over them.

“You will need to grow accustom to it. In Dorne they will not take kindly to being punched in the nose by their new Princess.”

Lyanna glanced up, finding Oberyn’s dark gaze fixed on her from where he stood at the other side of the table, and she ignored the quiet way her heart skipped.

“They may not take kindly to their new Princess being some wild northern girl who has no idea how to be a proper lady let alone a princess,” she pointed out, ignoring the look on Benjen’s face as her brother glanced between her and Oberyn.

A slight grin graced Oberyn’s face.

“Perhaps not,” Oberyn agreed, knowing there was more truth in Lyanna’s words that most would guess. There would be many who would look at her and see nothing but an outsider. “But if they see the _knight_ , the true _heart_ , beneath the wildness then perhaps they will soften a touch.”

Lyanna felt her heart leap slightly.

She caught the meaning of his words, subtle as he was trying to be, and realized that, in his own way, her new husband was trying to help her.

She gave a nod and a tiny, barely there smile gracing her face.

Oberyn gave a small smile of his own before moving on.

Lyanna watched him for a moment. Watched as he approached the high table where his niece gave a delighted squeal upon catching sight of him, her tiny hands outstretched and grabbing for him even as he laughed and swept the toddler from her mother’s arms, cradling her close. It made her wonder of the three girls waiting for him in Dorne. 

She knew the eldest of those girls, named Obara in honor of her father, had, only months ago, celebrated her ninth name day, making her more of an age to be a sister to her new stepmother than a daughter. And, in truth, Lyanna did not wish to be the girl’s mother. She did not wish to be mother to any of them. They had mothers, whether those women were in their lives or not, they had mothers and she would have no expectation to replace those women. It would not be easy, she suspected, to forge friendships with Oberyn’s girls but, she hoped, she could manage it.

“Lya?”

She was drawn from her thoughts by her brother’s voice and she turned her attention to him, knowing that, soon enough, she would not hear his voice again for a very long time. She would spend her remaining time in Winterfell, in the North, forging new memories of all the things that she loved so that they might sustain her in her new life so far away. If she snuck glances at Oberyn from time to time, well, that was hardly anyone’s business but her own.

**_oOoOoOo_ **

Lyanna spent the better part of the morning with Benjen until their father came looking for the youngest of their House as Benjen had skipped out on his daily lessons with the Maester. While Rickard took Benjen to task, Lyanna seized her moment and quietly slipped away without a backwards glance.

She made her way from the great hall and out to the courtyard where she saw Oberyn in the training grounds, sparring with uncle.

Lewyn was laughing and shaking his head, saying something to Oberyn that had the younger Dornishman throwing his head back and laughing. The sound of it was light and warm and it made her smile as she continued on across the yard towards the far wall. As she passed beneath the alcove she reached out to run her hand over the head of one of the stone direwolves that stood guard on either side of a heavy door that opened with a quiet groan.

The passage and stairway beyond the door were lit with torches, as they always were, and as she made her way down the stairs she felt a familiar sense of ease settle over her. Many would say this was the coldest and most depressing place in all of Winterfell and, though part of her agreed about the cold, she found, as always, that the crypts were a place of peace.

She walked the long stretch of the crypt, passing tombs of Starks long dead, knowing the names of the Lords and Kings who had ruled the North for generations before her. The one at the furthest end of the long room was that of Brandon Stark, or Bran the Builder as he was best known, the builder of Winterfell and the first of the Stark line. As a child she had often played here, darting in and around the many tombs, kneeling before Bran the Builder’s and swearing that she would know no King but the King in the North whose name was Stark.

But today was not a day for playing or for childish oaths for no longer was she a child.

Now she was a woman, a wife, and she had a visit to make.

She walked until she reached a familiar tomb, one that by the tradition of her family should not have possessed a statue but, as per her father’s wishes, did so. Carved of pale marble the tomb’s statue more a striking, almost heartbreaking, resemblance of the woman it was meant to represent. The man who had carved it had proven his skill by capturing the likeness of the woman laid to rest in the tomb behind it.

Reaching into her pocket, Lyanna, a small, sad smile gracing her face, withdrew the only flower left from that ridiculous crown Rhaegar had given her and, carefully, laid the still vibrant flower in the statue’s upturned palm.

“Hello, Mother,” she said softly, looking up at the pale stone face of the statue of Lady Lyarra Stark, her fingers dancing over the carven hand as though it were actually her mother’s. “I’ve married, though not to Robert.”

She chuckled to herself as she thought about how her mother might have reacted to the news.

“His name is Oberyn,” she continued softly. “He’s a Prince of Dorne and he’s…he’s been very kind to me. I think you would have liked him.” Her smile widened slightly. “I had to marry him because of a stupid kiss. Can you imagine, Mother?” She laughed and shook her head. “Father said it was to protect my honor but I think it was just to have some tie to Dorne. You always said Father was calculating and cunning. I’m starting to think you were right.”

Her smile saddened a touch.

“I’m starting to think you were right about so many things.”

She reached up to run her fingers over the statue’s hand again.

“He has children already. Three daughters not much younger than I am.” She wondered what Lyarra would say about that. “I know there are many who will sneer and call them bastards but I won’t. They are his children, no matter how he came to have them, and I do not care what anyone says I will not treat them differently because of it.”

She stared at the cold stone face for a moment.

“I’m worried, Mother,” she admitted quietly, able, as always, to tell the stone things she was unable to say to anyone. “Worried I won’t fit in or that I’ll be too different or the people there will hate me.” She swallowed and thought about what Oberyn had said to her. “Oberyn thinks if I’m myself that everything will be okay and I…I want to believe that because being myself here has never really worked.” She laughed softly. “It’s actually what got me in this mess in the first place. Playing at being a knight. Getting a kiss from a Prince.”

Her smile softened a touch at the memory of her first kiss with Oberyn. He’d always been kind. Through this entire mess that was something she would always remember and hold to. Oberyn had been kind. He didn’t have to be, she understood that very well, he could have been cold or cruel or any number of things but he had been kind. It spoke more to his character than any of the stories and rumors whispered of him.

“He’s a good man, Mother,” she said, looking at the carven face. “No matter what they say, I _know_ he is a good man and I think you would have liked him.”

She closed her eyes, trying to remember the last time she had actually seen her mother or heard Lyarra’s laughter. She could not clearly recall her mother’s voice but she could remember how the woman had said _I love you, my little pup._ It hurt, knowing she had, somewhere along the way, forgotten the exact sound of her mother’s voice and, as she opened her eyes, a stray tear trickled down her face.

“I wish you were here,” she whispered, reaching up to touch the smooth, carven cheek. The stone cold beneath her touch. “I wish you were here and could tell me what to do or…or just tell me everything is going to be okay.

Silence filled the air for a moment, the crypt as silent as ever, and Lyanna made a soft sound.

“I miss you. So much.” She rubbed her thumb over the marble as another tear glided down her cheek. “And I love you. I will carry your memory, your lessons, with me no matter where I go. I promise, Mother. I will make you proud of your little pup.

She closed her eyes again, bowing her head as she prayed silently. When she opened them again she wiped away the tears before slowly making her way from the crypts.


	11. Chapter 11

When Lyanna left the crypts she thought of going in search of her father, wanting to speak to him about an idea she had had while talking with Benjen earlier, but, upon again catching sight again of Oberyn in the training yard, found herself walking there instead.

She watched as Oberyn and his uncle sparred. Both wielded spears, though Oberyn’s had a touch more decoration than Lewyn’s, and both were clearly well trained in the use of their chosen weapon. It looked, if Lyanna had to pick something to compare it to, like a dance. A flash of steel, an elegant twirl, a twist of fabric. The two men coming together and all but leaping apart again, both trying to gain the upper hand, both unwilling to risk too much that might cause serious injury.

Lyanna could not help but smile as she watched Oberyn twirl and leap away from a strike, quick as she remembered him being from their little dual, and as he landed, light on his feet as a cat, she laughed.

The sound, it seemed, caught Oberyn’s attention as he suddenly looked her way, leaving himself open to a strike from Lewyn which landed hard against his ribs, knocking him back with a sharp grunt.

“Are you alright, nephew,” Lewyn asked with a knowing grin. “Or has your lovely wife distracted you?”

Oberyn grunted, shooting his uncle a sharp look before he looked to Lyanna, expression softening just a touch, reminding her of that day at Harrenhal.

“Perhaps my lovely wife would care to remind us that she is more than a pretty face.”

Lyanna, for all that she longed to step forward, to show what skill she possessed, hesitated. This was not Harrenhal where she was playing at being a knight to make a point about honour. This was not some silly, playful duel with a Dornish Prince in a field beyond a crumbling ruin of a castle. This was Winterfell. This was a place where, no matter her position, new or otherwise, there were, and always would be, expectations of her and picking up a sword and stepping into the training yard was not one of them.

And yet, in the next heartbeat, the stronger part of her reminded her that some rules were made to be broken and, perhaps more importantly, she was no long a Lady of House Stark but a Princess of House Martell.

With a smile, she stepped forward, grabbing a sparing sword from the rack a few steps away, giving it a few practice swings before turning to face Oberyn.

The Dornishman grinned almost wickedly as he twirled his spear with a touch more flourish than was necessary. A taunt. It made Lyanna roll her eyes even as Lewyn laughed and stepped to the edge of the yard to watch the pair.

It was like that day at Harrenhal all over again.

A dance more than a fight.

And Lyanna laughed as she ducked an obvious sweep of Oberyn’s spear, seeing the way he grinned as he spun to counter her own strike.

Back and forth they went.

Strike and block. Dodge and swing.

Like the day in Harrenhal, Lyanna’s felt free, felt alive, in a way she rarely did and, in that moment, she knew what she would do when they finally went to Dorne. She would not hide. She would not try to be the Lady her father had always wanted her to be. She would take Oberyn’s advice and be herself. Because herself was free and wild but compassionate and strong. She would be a she-wolf, as all Stark women had been before her, but she would not be distrusted, or hated or feared. She would be herself and, for it, she would be loved or not.

Ducking an arch of Oberyn’s spear, she realized how close she was and started to step towards her husband, only to gasp in surprise when, with a deft twist of his wrist, the shaft of Oberyn’s spear pressed against her lower back and, hand catching his spear just below the blade, with a sharp yank, drew her flush against him, in too close to properly swing her sword.

Staring up at him, Lyanna couldn’t help but laugh, breathless, as Oberyn grinned down at her.

In that moment nothing else existed. Nothing else mattered. Only them.

She leaned into him a touch more, smiling, and Oberyn’s head started to dip, his dark eyes twinkling warmly, when, suddenly, a voice called out.

“What by the gods is this then?”

Brandon’s thundering voice caused Lyanna to jerk slightly, pressing Oberyn’s spear shaft hard enough to bruise against her lower back where it had been rest, but Oberyn did not release her. His dark gaze swung to his left and fixed on Brandon who was standing there, arms folder over his chest, scowling as he glared at his new good-brother.

“Practice,” Oberyn said with a grin, slowly letting go of his spear so he held it with one hand, giving Lyanna the option of stepping away or staying where she was.

She did not move but to turn and face her brother.

Brandon’s scowl deepened and Lyanna fought hard not to roll her eyes.

“Practice,” Brandon drawled the word out as though having just heard it for the first time in his life and this time Lyanna could not stop her eye roll. “You realize that if my father were to see this he would…”

“He would what?” Oberyn sounded almost bored but there was a heat behind his words all the same that spoke loudly of his thoughts on the matter. “Scold me for how I interact with _my_ wife?”

That little vein in Brandon’s temple began to pulse.

“She is…”

“My wife,” Oberyn reminded with a brittle grin. “And a Princess of Dorne.”

The Dornishman moved forward, easily plucking the sword from Lyanna’s hand, taking several steps nearer to Brandon before he turned and, in a graceful move, tossed his spear to Lyanna’s feet, meeting her confused gaze steadily even as hushed whispers sounded around them.

“And in Dorne, girl or boy, we fight our battles.” Oberyn spoke strongly, surely, and Lyanna felt her heart leap. “But the gods let us choose our weapons.”

He pointed to the spear and then waved his hand towards Brandon, his meaning clear, at least it was to her, and Lyanna swallowed around the lump in her throat.

Either she fought her battles or she let others fight them for her.

Without a word, Lyanna stooped, hand closing around the shaft of the spear and, as she straightened, she heard that hushed whispers grow and saw not surprise on Brandon’s face but understanding. She saw acceptance. She was no longer just his baby sister. She was no longer just the daughter of the Lord of Winterfell. And no longer did she have to hide who she truly was.

She saw Oberyn’s smile, warm and glad and she smiled in return before moving towards her brother, who, it seemed, had calmed and was looking at her as he always had, with love and acceptance though also with perhaps just a touch of exasperation.

“Can nothing just be simple,” Brandon asked with a small smile.

“When it comes to me? Probably not.” Lyanna laughed, moving Oberyn’s spear so the shaft rested easily against her shoulder. “But I’ve made my choice, Brandon, and I won’t regret it.”

“So you say now.” Brandon reached out to tuck a loose strand of hair behind her ear.

“So I will always say,” she replied firmly. “My choices have always been my own and I will carry each one, good or bad, as best I can.”

Brandon finally smiled.

“Mother would be so proud of you.”

Lyanna’s heart leapt and her own smile grew as she reached out to hug her brother, who easily wrapped her up in a strong embrace as he always did, pressing a kiss to her temple before, with a chuckle, he nudged her back towards Oberyn and the open ground of the training yard.

“Go show him how strong a wolf is,” Brandon said with that wolfish grin that, more often than not, got him into trouble of some sort and Lyanna laughed as she spun back towards Oberyn, who was watching with a grin of his own as he exchanged the old sparring sword for the spear his uncle still held.

Seemed she would learn some of how to fight like a Dornishman today.

**_oOoOoOo_ **

By the time Lyanna left the training yard she was stiff, sore and bruised but in far better spirits than she had been in quite some time.

Oberyn had been a strict yet understanding teacher. His corrections had been quick, his demonstrations of proper stances and how to hold her spear had come in a manner that clearly suggested she was not his first pupil. And though she doubted the spear would ever be her weapon of choice, she knew that, should she wish to continue training to properly wield it, Oberyn would be the right man to teach her.

She was smiling as she stepped through the doors and into the castle, uncaring of the bruise she could already feel forming across her cheek. She had been caught by the shaft of Oberyn’s borrowed spear when she’d lunged too soon and too clumsily. He’d been concerned, had gently probed the skin to ensure he had done nothing more than give her a smarting smack that would only bruise, before correcting her mistake.

So, though she was bruised and sore, she walked through the halls of Winterfell with her head held high and pride pulsing through her.

She was near her father’s solar when a man, one she recognized as one of Rhaegar’s servants, stepped from Rickard’s solar, the heavy door closing almost silently behind him, and she could not help but frown slightly as the man hurried on by her without so much as a glance or bow. Highly unusual for a royal servant. And almost as strange was the peculiar look on his face. She frowned and paused, watching him hurry on down the hallway, disappearing around the corner in a flash.

Everything about the brief encounter nagged her as wrong.

Still frowning, Lyanna turned and, instead of heading for her chamber to clean up as she had intended, she headed for her father’s solar.

She gave the briefest of knocks, remembering all the slaps to her knuckles she had received as a child for just barging in, before entering, letting the door fall shut behind her without the carefulness the servant had shown.

Rickard stood at the window, a frown on his face a familiar one, and she could tell from the expression on his face, the way he had not acknowledged her presence, that she was deep in thought. The furrow of his brow told her that he was making a decision. One he found difficult or, perhaps, distasteful. She had only seen him so a handful of times, the last being when he had decided to send Ned to squire in the Vale.

“If you plan to spend most of the evening and night over thinking something,” she said with a teasing tone as she walked over to his desk, not surprised that the sound of her voice caused him to start slightly. “Then I suggest sticking to water rather than wine or ale.”

Rickard’s gaze swung to her and he huffed out a breath.

“Though you will never know it,” he said. “But being Lord of Winterfell is never an easy task, Lya. Sometimes a drink or two helps the mind see through problems he can’t otherwise see through.”

“If that’s what it means to be a Lord than I thank the gods I will never be one,” Lyanna replied almost cheekily, hopping up to sit on the edge of the desk, her hand sliding on a piece of paper. Looking down to move it, she paused as words jumped out at her.

_Rebellion._ _King’s death._ _Support for the Crown Prince._

She was startled, and nearly jumped from her perch on the desk, when her father, no doubt having realized what she held in her hand, snatched the paper from her.

“That is not for you,” Rickard’s tone was firm, icy and unlike any she’d ever heard from him before.

She watched as he turned, folding the paper and tucking it into the cabinet where he kept his important papers and letters, locking it away from prying eyes.

“Father,” Lyanna stood, frowning, starting to piece together the reason for the royal servant’s hurried retreat from her father’s solar. Why he had looked to have swallowed a lemon cake and a dagger all at the same time. “Father, that…that spoke of…”

_“Be silent, Lyanna!”_

Rickard’s voice, deep and fierce as a clap of thunder, caused her to flinch as though slapped and she stared, wide eyed at him.

He had never spoken to her like that before.

Like he was one of his men he was ordering back into line.

Silence reigned for several long minutes. A tension in the air that kept both of them still as stone until, finally, Rickard made a soft sound and scrubbed a hand over his face.

“I’m sorry,” he said as he turned back towards her, sighing softly as he shook his head. “I should not have shouted and I…” He paused, blinking, staring at her for a moment before hurriedly crossing back to where she stood. “Gods, Lya, what happened?”

His fingers brushed against the forming bruise and Lyanna flinched, pulling back slightly, reaching up to cover her cheek.

“Training accident,” she mumbled, knowing her father would not be happy but better he hear it from her than a servant or one of the guards.

“With whom?”

“My husband.”

Rickard blinked, looking at her as though she had grown a second head and then he spat a curse in the Old Tongue, something she’d not heard him do in a long time.

“Gods damn that foolish Dornishman,” he grumbled, shaking his head. “And I suppose none of my men were smart enough to try and stop this nonsense?”

Lyanna could not help but roll her eyes.

“Perhaps you should talk to Brandon, given that he stood there and watched.”

“Brandon did what?!”

Again, Lyanna rolled her eyes, but this time she heaved a heavy sigh, muttering under her breath.

“What was that,” Rickard demanded, cold gaze fixed on his daughter, who tilted her chin up as she met his gaze.

“I am not just your daughter anymore.”

Rickard blinked, uncertain what she meant and that uncertainty showed clear as day on his face.

“I stopped being _just_ your daughter yesterday,” Lyanna reminded gently but firmly. “I am married, to a Prince of Dorne, and that means the expectations of me are no longer yours to worry about. I will always be your daughter and I know my marriage is new but…but you, and everyone else, need to realize that I do _not_ need permission to do things that you have always deemed inappropriate just because I am a girl.”

Lyanna gave a small smile, her expression kind but determined.

“I will always be your daughter,” she said again. “But my husband said something today that I find myself in complete agreement with.”

“And what,” Rickard rumbled. “Would that be?”

“In Dorne, girl or boy, we fight our battles. But the gods let us choose our weapon.”

Lyanna stepped towards her father, reaching out and taking hold of one of his hands, still smiling at him.

“What weapon would you rather I fight with should the time come, Father? My tears? Or a sword? Which would serve me best in a moment that means my life or death?”

She saw the anger burn away as quickly as it had come and then Rickard was cupping her cheek with a loving smile.

“My precious girl,” he said softly, thumb brush gently over her cheek, mindful of the bruising. “Such iron strength beneath the beauty. You are indeed your mother’s daughter.”

Lyanna’s smile brightened and she stepped forward, hugging her father tightly.

“I thought I was ready to let you go,” Rickard said softly, hugging her just as tight. “I thought I could watch you leave Winterfell as a married woman and feel nothing but pride but the truth is…the truth is I’m going to spend the rest of my days worrying about you.”

“You won’t have to worry.”

“I am your father,” Rickard reminded as he drew back slightly, hands resting on Lyanna’s shoulders, smiling down at her. “I do believe it is my gods given right to worry over my children from the moment they are born until I draw my final breath.”

Lyanna couldn’t help but smile wider.

She suspected nothing she said would settle her father’s nerves or convince him that she would, in fact, be alright in Dorne. So, instead, she hugged him again, trying to convey all her love in the gesture because, she knew, she would worry about him when she left Winterfell. She would worry more knowing of the letter hidden in his cupboard but would pray every day to the Old Gods that they kept her father, and her brothers, safe and guided them well.

When Rickard pulled away again he cupped her cheek with a gentle smile.

“Now, pup,” he said. “I believe you should go get cleaned up. Best not to arrive to dinner looking like you’ve just come from battle.”

Lyanna laughed even as she moved towards the door.

“Somehow I think my husband would approve of that,” she teased and Rickard grunted.

“Do not remind me of his ideas of how a lady ought to behave,” the Lord of Winterfell grumbled though Lyanna saw his slight grin and heard a hint of amusement in his voice. “I might still have words with him about today’s events.”

“So long as you do not have plans to damage him I will not protest.” Lyanna opened the door, stepping out before pausing to look back. “I still need him to properly train me to fight with a spear.”

Rickard grunted again but waved her off, making her laugh again as she closed the door behind her before she headed off for her chambers.


End file.
